The Marriage Game (42 page)

“He is acting without the backing of the French government, madam,” Burghley informed her.

“That’s one mercy, but he could easily upset the situation in the Netherlands,” Elizabeth said, frowning. “I think a distraction is called for. We must revive the marriage negotiations.”

Her councillors stared at her. She was nearly forty-five, and highly unlikely to bear children now, yet still she was the greatest matrimonial prize in Europe, and still she behaved as if she really was the goddess of beauty, as the poets called her. They wondered how Anjou, a
young man twenty-two years her junior, would react to new overtures from England and the reality of marriage to this aging Hebe, a goddess of youth with an ambrosial cup well past its best.

To their surprise he preempted them, for what he lacked in height he more than made up for in ambition, and the crown of England was a compelling lure, especially now that fame and glory in the Netherlands were eluding him. With the backing of Elizabeth, he might yet emerge victorious and win the renown he so craved. No sooner had the matter been debated in council, it seemed, than Anjou dashed off a letter to the Queen, assuring her of his entire devotion and his willingness to be guided by her in all his doings. He professed to be astonished that, after two years of silence, he should wake up to the wonder of her existence, and pleaded most touchingly with her to revive their courtship.

And so it begins again, Elizabeth mused, smiling as she read his ingratiating missive. She felt rejuvenated to be playing the old marriage game once more. It proved that she was not so long in the tooth as some might think. In high good humor she ordered three new gowns with very low necklines—and let Robert dare say a word about that!—and six ropes of fine pearls.

But now there was Walsingham, recalled from France to be principal secretary, frowning and muttering about Anjou deceiving her.

“He is like all his race, madam, devious and corrupt. Think who his mother is! He means to cozen you, so that when he marches at the head of an army into the Netherlands, you will not raise a squeak in protest.”

Elizabeth was furious. Squeaking was the least of it. “God’s death!” she exploded. Pointedly ignoring Walsingham, she turned to Robert. “My lord of Leicester, please inform Mr. Secretary that it is not in the least surprising that the duke should have fallen in love with me. He is only going to the Netherlands to give himself better means to step over hither.”

“You heard that, Francis,” Robert said, trying not to laugh.

Elizabeth was walking in the gardens of Whitehall with Mendoza, the Spanish ambassador, assuring him, convincingly she thought, that she was the friend of Spain, and that she was deeply sympathetic toward the plight of the Queen of Scots, whom Philip had naturally championed—well, short of invading England and rescuing her. They were just returning to the palace when a piece of paper came fluttering through the privy door to the garden, as though someone unseen had deliberately thrown it at the Queen’s approach.

Elizabeth froze. She lived in fear of being attacked or assassinated, and she knew there were many subtle means of killing someone. She had heard tales that the Borgias used poisoned gloves or letters to get rid of an enemy, who then died an agonizing death as the venom seeped into the skin …

Before she could stop him, Mendoza swooped to pick up the paper, which turned out to be a letter bearing the Earl of Leicester’s seal. He handed it to her with a bow, and she summarily dismissed him, puzzled. Why would Robin send a letter in this manner? He was at Leicester House, and not well at all, she knew. Oh God, was he dying? Was this an urgent summons?

With trembling fingers she broke the seal and opened the letter. Yes, it was his writing.

It was the cruelest blow, and it came as an utter shock. She could not believe it. After all these years, and all the love between them, to forsake her, the Queen, if you please, for that hussy—and to
marry
her! It was the most unforgivable betrayal. And to write such news in a letter—it was the act of a coward. A true man would have come and
told her face-to-face, and explained his treachery. But now he was asking to see her, begging her to visit him, as he was in his sickbed—his
marriage
bed, more like! Oh, she knew her Eyes of old: he knew how illness won her sympathy. Well, he should not have it this time. He would never have it again. She would have them both in the Tower.
With child!
How
could
he?

How she made it up the stair to her rooms she did not know. Once there, she dismissed her ladies and paced up and down, rereading the letter, scarce knowing what she was doing. It was hard to take in, that she had lost him to another. She still could not believe it. Did he not know how much she had loved him, and still did love him, God help her? As for that bitch Lettice, she wanted to claw her eyes out and mar that perfect beauty, so that Robert would never have any more pleasure in her. That conjured up the thought of them lying together, sharing that pleasure, which made her cry out in agony. Weeping torrents, she sank to the floor, beating her breast.

It was an hour before she managed to compose herself. By then the white heat of her anger had cooled a little, but she was still spitting fire at the enormity of what Robin had done, and she would tell him so, yes, she would go
right now
and do that, and let him know how deeply he had hurt and displeased her, and that nothing would be the same again, ever.

She pulled on her cloak, taking care to draw its voluminous hood down over her ravaged, reddened eyes. Then she hastened down the stair and out through the gardens to the private landing stage. Here she commandeered her barge and had herself rowed to Leicester House on the Strand, where she alighted at the jetty. Ahead stood the large, imposing mansion that Robert had recently built for himself, complete with an Italianate
campanile
—and all by royal favor, the ungrateful traitor. No doubt he had built it for
her
, Elizabeth thought viciously as she made her solitary way up the path through the lawns.

She had been seen. His servants came running, and when they saw who it was, come alone to see the master, they gaped and subsided into hasty bows. Then they escorted her indoors and led her up the
massive oak staircase to the great chamber. And there was Robert, regarding her as a mouse looks when cornered by a particularly menacing cat, before remembering to make an elegant obeisance. Of
that woman
there was no sign.

As soon as the door closed and they were alone, Elizabeth sprinted across the room in three strides and slapped Robert across the face.
“How could you?”
she cried, all her pent-up anguish bursting forth.

Clapping his hand to his inflamed cheek, he looked at her, stupefied. “Because there was no hope for us,” he said sadly. “These twenty years I have loved you, Bess, and cherished the constant hope that you would do me the honor of becoming my wife. But you made it plain, again and again, that you did not want me, and that your fears of marriage were such that you hated to contemplate it.” His tone grew more urgent. “Bess, I have given up my youth and my prime waiting for you, and you, in turn, have seen fit to reward my humble service amply.” He waved his hand to encompass the richly appointed room. “But a man needs a wife in his bed and he needs an heir—and those things you could not give me. I do not blame you, but I think you now owe it to me to let me snatch some happiness while I can, for I am not as young as I was.”

“I thought you loved me,” Elizabeth said, tears starting from her eyes at hearing him confirm in words that he was lost to her.

“And so I do!” Robert protested. “My marriage has not diminished my love for you. But you and I know that for years we have been more like brother and sister than lovers. You know too that I will always be utterly devoted to you.”

Elizabeth could not answer. She was too distressed. She was remembering all the times he had begged and importuned her to marry him, and all the times she had refused, or kept him waiting for one of her answers answerless. Regret and remorse flooded her heart. If only the clock could be put back … And yet, if she had it all to do again, would she do it differently? Would not her answer be the same? She was not like other women; she was a damaged thing, and she was the Queen. And remembering that, she knew she must retrieve her composure
before she made a fool of herself. This man before her was a subject; he had merely married a wife, as noblemen did. It was no crime, and nothing to get worked up about. She should bravely have smiled her approval and retained her pride. Well, she would play her part properly now. Besides, it was late; the sky was growing dark, and she had to get back to Whitehall.

“Nothing has changed,” Robert said, looking at her with great compassion. She bridled. She did not want his sympathy, not when he was about to bed his trollop—his pregnant trollop. No doubt
that
had been the reason for this furtive marriage.

She glowered at him. “No, nothing has changed, my lord. You will attend me at court as before. Where is your—wife?” She had not wanted to say the word, lest it make what had happened more true.

“She is at Wanstead,” Robert said.

“Wanstead?”

“Aye, I have bought Wanstead Hall from Lord Rich.” It was a former royal residence, and very fine, as she recalled. Elizabeth hated to think of
that woman
, her victorious rival—and all the more deadly for securing her victory in secret—living in such state. Well, the battle might be won, but the war was by no means over!

“That is as well for her, then,” she said. “You may tell her that she has incurred my severe displeasure, since she has married without my permission, which, as the widow of an earl, she was bound to seek. You can tell her also that she will not be welcome at court again.”

Robert opened his mouth to protest, but quickly closed it. If he was hoping that she would change her mind when she’d had time to calm down and reflect, he had best think again!

“I understand why you feel as you do,” he said, holding out his hands to her. She ignored them.

“You understand nothing!” she snapped. “I shall look for you at court when you are
recovered
.” She laid heavy emphasis on the last word, hoping to shame him for lying to her. “I bid you good evening, my lord.” And she left without a backward glance.

When she got back to Whitehall, she sent a message of apology to Mendoza, telling him she could not see him to resume their conversation
because she was unwell. Then she crawled into bed and gave herself up to grief.

The next day, in council Elizabeth ordered that an envoy be sent immediately to France to reopen negotiations for her marriage to the Duke of Anjou. Robert was not present. He had sent a message begging to be excused, saying that his illness obliged him to travel north to Buxton again to take the waters. Elizabeth thought it was more likely that he had gone to Wanstead to be with
that woman
. She had never felt such hatred toward one of her sex—not even the Queen of Scots—as she now felt for that viper Lettice.

“You should know, gentlemen, that my lord of Leicester has married Lady Essex,” she announced, her face a mask of disapproval. Twenty faces turned to stare at her.

“He had your permission, madam?” Burghley asked gently.

“Yes, of course,” Elizabeth lied. No one should know how he had deceived and hurt her.

Robert stayed away for two months. Probably, she reasoned, he was giving her time to acclimatize herself to the situation. More likely he was enjoying his honeymoon, the bastard. But old habits died hard—or not at all. Despite herself, she worried that he really was ill, and that the waters were not proving of any benefit. Then she would torture herself with thoughts of him romping in bed with
that woman
at Wanstead, as he had romped with her in happier times, only going further … 
all the way, with no one to say nay to him
. She bit her lip. She could not bear to think of it.

Hatton saw how miserable she was and attempted to cheer her by flirting outrageously. As he steered her into the dance one evening, he murmured in her ear, “There is only one woman that
I
would ever marry, and it is yourself, fair Eliza.”

“You are very presumptuous, my Lids,” she chided him, trying to smile all the same.

“You know you have my undying adoration,” Hatton vowed, his dark eyes full of intent. “To serve you is Heaven; to lack you is more than Hell’s torment.”

Such devotion! Suddenly tears filled Elizabeth’s eyes and she gripped his hand tightly. “I could not bear it if you ever betrayed me as my lord of Leicester has by marrying someone else, especially as he too swore undying loyalty to me.”