A Favorite of the Queen: The Story of Lord Robert Dudley and Elizabeth 1 (46 page)

“We will,” said the Queen. “Yet will we see her before we leave. We will visit her in her bedchamber if need be. But tell her now that we excuse her for this day.”

Robert felt almost gay.

“I seem to have seen that boy before,” said the Queen.

“I am fond of him,” said Robert, “and I have a reason for being so.”

She was alert.

“He reminds me of a boy I knew long ago … in the Tower of London. I was a desolate prisoner and he took flowers from me to a goddess whom I adored from the moment I saw her.”

Such flattery was food and drink to Elizabeth. She remembered too.

“He was a pleasant child,” she said, “but methinks he lacked the good looks of this young Robert.”

Robert went on: “I remember the day you came by, and I looked through my prison bars. I firmly believe that I have never been happier in the whole of my life than I was then.”

“A poor life has been yours, my lord, if your best moments were those of a poor prisoner. Is that the way for a proud man to talk?”

“It is indeed, gracious Majesty, for then I had hopes … great hopes. I dreamed of love … of a perfect being. But alas, my dreams were only partly fulfilled. I had high hopes once.”

“A man should never give up hope, my lord. Surely you know that. Never as long as he lives.”

“But, Madam, what is a man to do when he finds the woman he loves is a goddess, above all earthly desires and needs?”

“He might become a god. Gods may mate with goddesses.”

So did he delight her with this flattering conversation, luring her away from a train of thought which, started by a handsome boy named Robert who had something of the Dudley looks, might have led to grave disaster.

Robert and Lettice
met in a quiet chamber of the castle. Their meetings must be brief for they must not both be missed at the same time; and Robert was expected to be in constant attendance upon the Queen.

Meetings were very precious. Lettice might have urged him to recklessness, but she was looking far ahead. Once she had lost him through the Queen, and she was determined not to do so again.

She said to him as they lay behind locked doors in that small room: “And what afterward?”

“We must see each other,” he said, “and often.”

“How so?”

“Doubtless it can be arranged.”

“The Queen watches you as a dog watches a rabbit. And what when my husband returns from Ireland?”

“Essex must not return from Ireland.”

“How can that be prevented when his task is completed?”

“There will be a way.”

“There may be a way. But
we
shall not meet. There is too much to prevent our doing so.”

“We shall,” he insisted. “We must.”

“I would that we might marry. I long for that. To live graciously … without these secret meetings … to have sons like my own Robert, but your sons.”

“You cannot know how fervently I wish that.”

“Will you spend the rest of your days behaving like the Queen’s lap-dog, yapping at her heels, cowering from her anger, being taken up and set down at the whim of a moment?”

“Nay!” he said passionately.

She strained herself against him. “Should we not mold our own lives, Robert? Were we not meant to marry, to have children?”

“You are right. We were meant to. But,” he added, “there is Essex.”

She was silent for a while, then she said: “Mean you, my lord, that only Essex stands between our marriage … not the Queen?”

“But for Essex we would marry. We could keep that secret from the Queen.”

She said quietly: “It would have to be a true marriage. My family would insist on that. My sons would be your heirs … nothing less.”

“Nothing less,” he repeated.

“And only Essex is between us and that?”

“Only Essex.”

He thought of the boy whom she had borne Essex—young Robert
Devereux—one of the tallest and most beautiful children he had ever seen. Such would his sons be if he married Lettice. He loved Douglass’ boy, but not enough to make Douglass his true wife.

Her next words startled him: “How much do you love me?”

He answered: “Infinitely.”

He knew then that she was thinking of Amy Robsart; and next day, during the water pageant he had planned for the Queen’s delight, he also was thinking of Amy.

Douglass knelt before
the Queen. She had never been so frightened in the whole of her life. She had scarcely seen Robert since the Queen had come to Kenilworth. He had paid one visit to her to tell her how she must conduct herself before the Queen. He had been cold, and she had sensed his deep anger; and that anger she knew was directed against herself.

She knew too that he was in love with the Countess of Essex. She had heard it whispered. They could not keep it secret as they would wish; it showed in their faces when they looked at each other. Pray God the Queen did not notice. No one would tell her, for she would not thank the one who did, and that person would gain the eternal enmity of the Earl of Leicester.

And now who knew what questions the Queen would ask of Doug lass, whose mind was not quick and clever. She prayed that she might find the right answers.

The Queen was in a mellow mood. She bade Douglass rise while she studied her closely. Douglass had been a beautiful woman, but the days and nights of strain had left their mark upon her face in dark shadows under her eyes; and an air of drooping melancholy could not be hidden from the Queen.

He may have loved her once, mused Elizabeth, but he no longer does.

“Come, Lady Sheffield, sit beside us. We hear you have been indisposed, and we are sorry.”

“Your Majesty is most gracious.”

“It is a pity indeed that you have missed those pageants which have been prepared for our delight. Our host has surpassed even himself, and we have rarely been so entertained. We hear you had some hand in the arrangements.”

“Oh, no, Your Majesty. My husband was a friend of the Earl’s who graciously gave me permission to rest here while he was at Court. And so did I. I confess that a desire to see Your Majesty made me delay my departure.”

“Well, you have seen me now. I trust you are pleased with the sight. Have I changed since you served at Court?”

“Your Majesty performs the miracle of growing more beautiful with the passing years.”

“You have a charming son.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Named Robert, eh?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“The Earl seems fond of him.”

“The Earl, like Your Majesty, has a fondness for children.”

“That’s so. And the boy is three years old, I hear.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“I remember your husband … Sheffield.”

Elizabeth had the pleasure of watching the flush spread from Douglass’ neck to her brow, and the circumstances seemed clear to her. But she was sure the affair was over, so she was only mildly annoyed; her wicked Robert, she told herself, must be given a little license.

But she must be sure that the affair was over. She would keep the woman where she might see how she behaved in the future.

She said: “Lady Sheffield, I like your manners. You shall join us in our journeyings, and when we return to Court there will be a place for you in the bedchamber.”

Douglass fell to her knees in gratitude. Her joy shone from her eyes. If she were at Court, she would see Robert constantly.

A few days after that interview the royal procession left Kenilworth.

The Queen was
thrown into a flutter of excitement by the arrival at Court of Monsieur Simiers, for this energetic little Frenchman came on a romantic mission; he came on behalf of his master, the Duke of Anjou, to ask for the Queen’s hand in marriage.

Elizabeth, certain now that Douglass’ child was also Robert’s, felt the need for a little courtship, and she welcomed Monsieur Simiers graciously.

Very soon the young man became her Monkey (because of his name, she told him, but his features did suggest the name) and he was seen walking with her, riding with her, sitting beside her; in fact he seemed scarcely ever out of her presence. He was practiced in all the arts at which the French excelled—dancing, paying compliments, adoring her with his eyes, hinting that he would barter twenty years of his life if he might be her lover in reality and not as proxy for another.

She bestowed upon him all the favors which she was wont to bestow on others; and his was the cheek which was affectionately tapped, his the arm on which she leaned, his the lips which kissed her hands. Her Monkey put her Eyes, her Lids, and her old Bellwether into the shade.

It was all a little ridiculous for, although she was well over forty, she was behaving like a girl of sixteen—and a frivolous lovesick one at that.

So absorbed was she with her Monkey that she scarcely noticed that the Earl of Essex was back in England and that there seemed to be burning within him a smoldering anger.

When Robert informed her that Essex’s work was not completed in Ireland and that he must therefore be sent back at once, she gave her consent and the Earl went most reluctantly.

Essex had been back in Ireland little more than a month when the news came that he had died of a flux; and there were rumors that his death was not a natural one.

Elizabeth snatched a few moments from the society of her Monkey to discuss this matter with Robert.

“What think you?” she asked. “Doubtless the man had his enemies. I like not these rumors.”

Robert answered: “Rumor must be quashed. There shall be an inquest, and my brother-in-law Sidney, as the Deputy of Ireland, will see that it is carried out in a fitting manner.”

“Let that be done then.”

And it was, for Sir Henry Sidney was able to report that the death of the Earl of Essex was due to natural causes.

Shortly afterward a man who had been closely connected with Essex died similarly. This man had uttered wild words; he had said that a very notable person in England had so urgently wished for the death of my lord of Essex that he had sent his professional poisoners to Ireland to dispatch him; and as those in charge of the inquest had been very near to that notable person, and their fortunes wrapped in his, the matter was not sifted as it might otherwise have been.

But this man was of no standing, and his death did not call for the investigation which had followed that of the Earl of Essex.

Kat, hearing the rumors, was frightened.

The gossip in her longed to disclose to the Queen all she had heard. But Kat loved her royal mistress even more than she loved gossip. The murder of Essex could mean only one thing: Leicester must this time be so deeply in love that he was considering marriage. It was all very well for Elizabeth to flirt with her Monkey, to speak of the charms of her dear Bellwether. Lightly she loved these men; but there was one whom she truly loved.

If she had married him, reasoned Kat, she would have been happier than she was without him. She would still have been the Queen and he would have had to obey her. She had chosen the wrong man if she expected him meekly to accept a position which was well-nigh intolerable.