A Favorite of the Queen: The Story of Lord Robert Dudley and Elizabeth 1

NINE

During these politically troublous times, Robert’s private life was providing complications.

Robert, as he himself admitted, was a frail man where women were concerned; yet the Queen did not seem to understand how frail he was in this respect; she did not seem to understand the strain she put upon him. He longed for children. He had two charming nephews of whom he was very fond—Philip and Robert Sidney; they were to him as sons; but he was not a man to be content with his sister’s sons.

Burghley had a son of his own. It was true that Robert Cecil was a puny creature, had been hard to rear and had inherited his humped back from his studious mother. Only Robert Dudley, the most virile, the most handsome at Court, was without legitimate children.

His first and most cursed marriage had been a childless one; he knew that was due to Amy and not to himself; he had proved that. But illegitimate children were not what he wanted; to them he could give his affection, but not the Dudley name.

For some years he had been having a very pleasant love affair with Douglass, Lady Sheffield. This was highly dangerous, but his passion for Douglass had been so strong that, to satisfy it, he had been ready to risk discovery and the Queen’s displeasure.

He remembered well the beginning of their love affair. The Queen had been on one of her summer pilgrimages which she had insisted should take place every year. A great procession would set out from Greenwich, Hampton, or Westminster—the Queen usually on horseback but sometimes in a litter followed by numerous carts containing furnishings and baggage. All must show a gusto to equal her own in these journeys.

The people would come for miles to see her pass, and stage entertainments for her. She loved the easy manners of the people who, she declared, though they might lack the grace of her courtiers, loved her no less than they did.

As to the route which should be followed, she changed her mind again and again. One farmer, having heard that she was to go one way, and then had decided against it before finally taking the road she first intended, shouted beneath the window of the inn where she was staying that night: “Now I know the Queen is but a woman; and she is very like my wife, for neither can make up their minds.” Her ladies were shocked. How dared the man thus talk of the Queen? But Elizabeth put her head out of the window and cried to her guards: “Give that man money to shut his mouth.”

One man called to the royal coachman to “Stay the cart that I may speak with the Queen!” And the Queen, smiling graciously, commanded that the cart be brought to a full stop; and not only did she speak to the man but she gave him her hand to kiss.

These familiarities endeared her to the people. When she stayed at humble inns, she would insist that the good innkeeper did not beggar himself to entertain her; but when she stayed at noble houses she expected lavish display.

On the occasion of which Robert was thinking, the party rested at Belvoir Castle, the estate of the Earl of Rutland; and among those noblemen who came from the surrounding country to pay homage to the Queen was Lord Sheffield.

The most beautiful woman in that assembly was Douglass, Lady Sheffield. She was of high birth, being a Howard of the Effingham branch; she was young and impressionable.

She had heard of the great Dudley who had recently been created Earl of Leicester and offered as husband to Mary Queen of Scots. Circulating about the country were stories in which the Queen figured largely; the whole of England had gossiped about the love affair, the murder of Amy, the children they had had, and of the Queen’s passionate jealousy regarding him. It seemed to Douglass that this Earl of Leicester was not so much a man as a god—often a malignant god, but an intensely fascinating one.

And when she saw him, magnificently attired and sitting his horse as no other sat his, she thought—as others had thought before her—that nowhere in the world and at no time had a man lived to equal the physical perfection of this Robert Dudley.

When Douglass knelt before the Queen, Leicester was beside Her Majesty; and for a moment Douglass saw his eyes upon her. She shivered. This was the man who had planned the murder of his wife for the sake of the Queen. This was the man who some said was the wickedest in England. He was aware of her look. He smiled, and she felt that was one of the most important moments of her life.

There was a banquet and ball that night in Belvoir Castle. The Queen was flirting in her lively fashion with her new favorite, Hatton, and inclined to be tart with Robert. It might have been that she had noticed his glance at the beautiful Lady Sheffield.

Thinking of Douglass, Robert knew, out of his experience, that in her case there would be a quick surrender, and felt a sullen anger toward the Queen rising within him. What a life he might have had! What if he had married a woman such as the charming Lady Sheffield? What children they might have had—sons like Philip and Robert Sidney. If he had married the Queen, their son would have been heir to a kingdom. But she was perverse and would rule alone. Amy had died in vain and he had an evil reputation. He had suffered much on account of this, and yet he might have remained married to Amy all these years, for all the difference it had made.

In the dance he found himself next to Douglass.

She was not bold, as Lettice Knollys had been. Lettice had been attracted because of his reputation, Douglass in spite of it. But he was excited by this young woman. Let Elizabeth flirt with her dancing master.

He bent close to Douglass and said: “Fate brings us together.”

She started, and he went on: “You have heard evil tales of me. Do not believe them, I beg of you.”

“My lord,” she began, but he interrupted with: “Come. ’Tis true. Much evil has been spoken against me.”

She recovered her composure. “We know you here for the great Earl … the greatest Earl …”

“The wickedest Earl!” he put in. “That saddens me. I would like an opportunity of proving to you that it is not true.”

“I … I did not believe it,” she said.

But the dance had taken her from him. He thought of the pleasure which would be his when she became his mistress. He pictured happy meetings, riding away from Court to meet her at one of his houses; perhaps even arranging that the Sheffields should come to Court. It would be dangerous, but he was in the mood for recklessness.

The dance had brought him to the Queen.

“I have been watching you at the dance, my lord.” Her eyes challenged him.

He answered ironically, excited by Douglass who was so young and charming: “I am honored by Your Majesty’s attention. I did not believe that in the dance your Eyes could interest you as do your Lids.”

She gave his arm a nip. “You must not be jealous, Robert. There are some who excel at one thing, others at another; some are born dancers, some lovers of women.”

“And some fortunate ones, both, Your Majesty.”

She gave him her hand and he pressed it fervently. He saw that she was satisfied, and that was what he wished; he wanted no interference with his new experience.

Yet for all his arts and wiles it was not until the last day of his stay at Belvoir Castle that Douglass became his mistress. She feared her husband; he feared the Queen; therefore a meeting was not easy to arrange.

But he was expert at such arrangements. He managed to lure her away from the others during a hunt; he knew of an inn nearby where they might stay awhile to refresh themselves. He was so fascinating, so debonair that he could conduct such matters with skill and charm. To Douglass it seemed that he was all-powerful; and in any case he was quite irresistible.

Yet such an important personage could not absent himself even for a few hours without attracting some attention. Mercifully the Queen did not notice his absence, but there were others to smile behind their hands and to whisper together of my lord’s latest amorous adventure.

When the royal party left Belvoir, promises were exchanged between the lovers.

That had happened some time ago, yet Robert had never lost interest in Douglass. She was so charming, so well-bred, being one of the Howards of Effingham; she displayed none of the Tudor tantrums.

Two or three years after their first meeting, Lord Sheffield had unfortunately died. Robert regretted this because Douglass had changed when she became a widow. She was by nature a virtuous woman, and only the great fascination which Robert was able to exert could have made her break her marriage vows; consequently she had suffered much remorse, and she longed for a regular union. Whilst her husband lived, that, happily for Robert, was out of the question; but when he died and a suitable period had elapsed, she began pleading for marriage. She was even more in love with him than she had been during those ecstatic days at Belvoir Castle. It would be the happiest day of her life, she told him, when she could enjoy their union and feel herself to be free from sin.

It was at this time that a new danger presented itself. Douglass came to Court; and her sister, Frances Howard, who was also at Court, became enamored of Robert. The two sisters were jealous of each other and their jealousy became a subject for gossip.

And as if this were not enough, Douglass continued to plead for marriage.

Robert was charmingly regretful. “But, my dear Douglass, you know my position at Court. You know what I owe to the Queen’s favor. I doubt not that I should lose all that I have gained if there was a marriage between us.”

“What of a secret marriage, Robert?”

“Do you think such a matter could long be kept secret from the Queen? She has her spies everywhere. And I have my enemies.”

“But our love has been a secret.”

He smiled wryly at her. If only it had been so, he would have felt much easier in his mind.

“Do you know,” he asked her, “what I have risked for your sake?”

“Oh, Robert, if I should bring disaster to you I should never forgive myself.”

He would consider it worthwhile, he told her; but it would be senseless to run unnecessarily into danger.

Then the troublous times had come. The rebellion and the execution of Norfolk had given him other matters with which to occupy his mind. There was a new personality at Court—Sir Francis Walsingham—a protégé of Burghley’s and a man of great astuteness. He had been ambassador to the Court of France and, when he returned to England, had become a member of the Privy Council. Robert had recognized the dynamic qualities of this dark-skinned man and was trying to win him over to his side, that, if need be, they might stand together against Burghley. These matters took his thoughts from Douglass until it was necessary for her to leave Court because she was to have a child.

Now Douglass was alternately joyful and despairing. She wanted the child but could not bear that it should be born a bastard. How could she explain its existence, she wanted to know. It was some years since her husband had died. Robert must marry her now.

Robert himself was torn with indecision. What if the child should be a boy? Had he not always longed for a son? And yet … what of the Queen?

Frantically he searched for a solution.

Douglass, retiring though she was, was by no means a calm woman; she was given to bouts of melancholy and hysteria; and Robert was afraid that in her pregnancy these weaknesses might be intensified. He had many enemies, but he also had his supporters. There was his own family; his brothers and sisters and all those connected with the Dudley family looked to him as their leader; if he fell, they would fall too. He had his followers and they were dependent on him, so he could trust their loyalty. He was without doubt a powerful man, but because his power had come to him through his personal qualities rather than his achievements, he regarded it more lightly than a man would have done who had earned it by careful, constant effort. Robert had had much success; he believed he could succeed in what others dared not attempt.

So at last he agreed to go through a form of marriage with Douglass very quietly at Esher, with only a few of his trusted servants as witnesses.

This seemed to him a master-stroke, for he felt sure that the Queen’s anger would not be lasting if he were not properly married; and at the same time, as a result of this mock marriage, Douglass could call herself—in secret—the Countess of Leicester, and soothe her qualms.

She was soothed and thought of nothing but preparing for the child.

It was a boy, and they called him Robert.

But their enemies were already whispering one with another that the Earl of Leicester had secretly married, and that it was well known how he and the lady had been lovers before the death of Lord Sheffield.

The death of Lord Sheffield! Now how had Lord Sheffield died? Of a catarrh, it was said. Might it not have been an artificial catarrh which stopped his breath?

They only had to cast their minds back to another death. Had they forgotten the poor lady who had been found with her neck broken at the foot of a staircase at Cumnor Place! That was when Lord Robert had thought he might marry the Queen. And now that the Earl of Leicester wished to marry another lady, that lady’s husband had most conveniently died.

Such rumors there would always be concerning one so prominent, one who had known such spectacular good fortune.

Robert must make sure these rumors did not reach the ears of the Queen.

News of one of the most horrible massacres the world had ever known came to England.

On the Eve of St. Bartholomew’s Day, King Charles with his mother, Catherine de’ Medici, and the Duke of Guise had incited the Catholics of Paris to murder thousands of Huguenots assembled in the capital for the wedding of Catherine’s daughter, Marguerite, to Henry of Navarre.

The whole Protestant world was shocked and scandalized by the bestial cruelties which had been let loose. The streets of Paris, it was said, were running with the blood of martyrs. Two thousand, it was reported, had been slain in Paris alone; and in Lyons, Orléans, and many other cities the horror had been repeated. The noble Coligny himself—known throughout the world as the most honorable of men—was one of the victims; his son-in-law Téligny had followed him, as had many other gentlemen of high reputation.

The little boats were crossing the Channel and thousands of men and women were seeking refuge in England; the whole of the Protestant world was ready to take arms against the Catholics.

Preachers thundered from pulpits; letters of warning were sent to the Queen and her Council. “Death to all Catholics!” cried the people. “Make a treaty of friendship with Germany, with the Netherlands, and with Scotland. Stand together against the bloodthirsty idolators. And take that dangerous traitress, the pestilence of Christendom, the adulteress and murderess, Mary of Scotland, without delay to the block. Was it not her relations, the Guises, who had been behind the massacre! The Duke of Guise had conceived the murderous plan in conjunction with that Jezebel, the Italian Catherine de’ Medici. The Queen of England was in danger. Let her not bring rape, robbery, violence, and murder into the land for the sake of her miserable mercy to a horrible woman who carried the wrath of God with her wherever she went.”

Elizabeth was shaken. Like everyone else she daily expected war. She believed that the massacre was a preliminary move in a full campaign of the Catholics against the Protestants. She had all the ports manned; the ships of England were ready. She allowed Burghley and Leicester to persuade her to take some action with regard to Mary; but she would not agree to her execution. Mary was to be sent back to Scotland where she would doubtless be tried for Darnley’s murder and executed. Thus Mary would die and Elizabeth be said to have had no hand in her death.

But the months passed and there was no attack by the Catholics. Mary was still detained in England; but Elizabeth and her ministers knew that as long as there were Catholics and Protestants in the world there would be strife in one form or another between them.

Even as she looked at those ministers about her, Elizabeth sensed their irritation with her actions regarding Mary.

Burghley was a stern Protestant. Robert, though not religious, was giving himself to the Protestant cause. Only the Queen remained lukewarm. She would not admit it, but she favored neither sect. Both provoked bloodshed, and that fact prevented her from approving of either. How could it matter, she would ask herself in secret, whether a man believed the bread of the sacrament to be the body of Christ or blessed bread! What mattered was that she should continue to reign over her people, that her people loved her, and that her country should come to greatness through that peaceful prosperity which only tolerance could bring.

Life flowed more easily in England, although the Queen and her ministers were watching events abroad with an even keener interest than they had before the massacre.

The Dutch, under the Prince of Orange, were rebelling against the Spaniards who, with their relentless Inquisition, had inflicted such cruelty upon them.

Later the Queen issued a law against the wearing of over-sumptuous apparel among the common people, although her own wardrobe had never been so magnificent. There was trouble in Ireland and, to subdue it, Elizabeth had sent over the Earl of Essex who had been Lord Hereford and the husband of Lettice—the central figure in Robert’s escapade of some years before.

The King of France died, and Elizabeth, who had considered the Duke of Anjou, who was now Henri Trois of France, as one of her suitors, pretended to be annoyed because he had married unexpectedly.

Wheat was scarce and the price rose to six shillings a bushel. This was disquieting; the people began to murmur.

Then came the threat of war. The Prince of Orange and the Provinces of Zeeland and Holland suggested to Elizabeth that she should become their Queen, but she was stout in her refusal. Her ministers begged and implored. “What!” she cried. “Plunge my people into war with Spain!”

In vain did they protest and point out that she would become the head of the Protestant world. She wanted no part in the wars of religion, she told them. Let others fight such wars. She would remain aloof. She believed that those who stood aside and looked on at the wars of others were the real victors.

That summer she took her usual trip through the countryside. Robert had gone on ahead of the royal party, for the route that year passed through Kenilworth and Robert was to be the Queen’s host for twelve days of July. He was determined to prepare such pageants and entertainments as had never before been seen.

He was uneasy as he rode North. He could not help wondering whether she had heard the rumors concerning Lord Sheffield’s death; he wondered whether any had dared face her wrath by telling her that Douglass believed herself to be married to him and that he and Douglass had a son.

Elizabeth had been haughty with him recently and it was this that had started those uneasy thoughts. She was more devoted to her old Mutton and Bellwether—her new names for Hatton. She was very fond of her Moor; this was Walsingham, who was swarthy enough to merit the name. Therefore, thought Robert, he must plan such diversions as had never been known, even in the days of Cardinal Wolsey and her father.

Kenilworth Castle was surrounded by nearly twenty miles of rich estates. Robert had spent thousands of pounds beautifying the place and cultivating the land. He was a proud man as he rode through his estates. He wished that his father—who had always been his model—were alive to see him. This year alone the Queen had already seen that fifty thousand pounds had come his way—and that was in addition to the income he received from his many activities.

He no longer hoped for marriage with the Queen, for he now believed that she would never marry. She was a strange woman, not to be judged by ordinary standards. Many rumors circulated concerning her. Some said that she would not marry, knowing herself, on account of an obstruction, to be incapable of sexual intercourse. He knew the Queen better than any living person. He knew that love, for her, was a matter of flattery, compliments, kisses, and fond embraces. Her eyes would glisten at the sight of a handsome man; she could not refrain from caressing him. She was indeed a strange woman. She was fond of men, but she was perpetually in love with power. And … she wished to linger in romantic lanes, never reaching any definite journey’s end.

When he arrived at the Castle, a shock awaited him, for Douglass was there, and the child was with her. He was astounded. She should be at one of his manor houses awaiting the day when he could visit her. Although these people who were with him were his friends, he was not entirely sure that he could trust their discretion forever.

She had evidently decided not to embarrass him. “My dear friend,” she said, “I was passing nearby and, hearing of your great plans, called in to give you my help. You will have much to do here and I fancy I can be of some service to you.”

Were there amused smiles among the spectators? Was that a frown of anxiety between Philip Sidney’s eyes? Robert’s nephew loved him as did no other man, and Philip was wise. He scented danger.

Robert’s quick wits asserted themselves. “You are good indeed, Lady Sheffield,” he said. “I doubt not that I owe much to your kindness.”

But he was thinking: What, when the Queen is here! And his delight was turned to apprehension.

Elizabeth was very gay as she set out on her journey. With her were all the ladies of the Court, forty earls, and more than sixty lords and knights. She was looking forward with pleasure to her arrival at Kenilworth, to see Robert surrounded by that magnificence which he owed to her.

Dear Robert! He was not so young now. To tell the truth the figure which had once been lithe and slender was no longer so; the dark curling hair which she had loved to fondle was thinning and turning gray, and there were pouches under the beautiful eyes. She, who loved him, saw him clearly; all his faults she saw, but they mattered not, for they could not alter her affection. He had not the clever mind of her Sir Spirit or her dear exasperating Moor; yet he had twice their ambition. He was—she would confess to herself—a little too careful of his health; he loved taking a physic; she often smiled to hear the earnestness with which he discussed a new cure with another such as himself. She herself defied pain; she would never admit she had any. She defied death and old age.

She could scarcely take her mind off the pleasures in store and give attention to serious matters.

Peters and Turwert, the two anabaptists from Holland, were to be burned at the stake while she was out of her capital. She had had many letters concerning these men. Bishop Foxe, whose chief concern was with martyrs, had written to her begging her not to sully her name, her reign and the Reformed Church by emulating the Catholics. Bishop Foxe and those who agreed with him did not understand. She must not come into the open as a supporter of anabaptists. Philip of Spain was watching. If only her people knew how she dreaded that man, how in her heart she knew that he, with that fanatical fervor she had once glimpsed in his eyes, was waiting for the day when he and the Catholic community would dominate the world, and all men would go in fear of the Inquisition!

She did not concern herself overmuch with these two Dutchmen. She was, like her father, not given to brooding over torture inflicted on others.

There was another matter which offered more pleasing reflection.

Catherine de’ Medici—now that her beloved son Henri was King of France and a married man—was hoping that Elizabeth might reconsider as a suitor her younger son, he who had been Alençon and, since his brother had become King, taken his brother’s title of Duke of Anjou.

Elizabeth found it amusing to play at courtship again.

The little man was quite ugly, she had been told; but the French ambassador—that most charming La Mothe Fenelon—was loud in his praises. The little Duke, he intimated, was beside himself with love for the English Queen; and if she were older than he was, he liked her for that. He was no callow youth to enjoy mere girls. Elizabeth had also heard that he was a little pock-marked, which she had said, made her hesitate. Catherine de’ Medici wrote to Elizabeth saying that she knew of an excellent remedy which, it was claimed, would remove all trace of the pox and make the skin smooth again. Elizabeth replied that this was excellent news; and they must at once have the remedy applied to the face of the Duke.

And now … to Kenilworth.

It was July and very warm when the procession arrived at Long Ichington, which was six or seven miles from the Castle. Here Robert had erected a tent in which a banquet was prepared.

The Queen, in good humor and most affectionate, would have Robert sit beside her; and when the banquet was over, Robert had a fat boy, six years old, brought to her—the fattest she had ever seen, but so foolish as to be unable to understand that she was his Queen. After the fat boy, she was invited to inspect an enormous sheep: the biggest of their kind, these two, and both bred on Robert’s territory. The Queen laughed immoderately, and this was a good beginning.

They left the tent and followed the chase which was to lead them to Kenilworth Castle.

The Queen, at the head of the chase, kept Robert beside her, and while he pointed out with pride all the beauties and richness of the scene, he said: “I owe all this to my dearest mistress. May I die the moment I forget it!”

She was pleased, and as she was reluctant to give up the hunt, there was little daylight left when they reached the gates of Kenilworth Park.

In the Park, pageants greeted her. Smiling, she acknowledged the greetings of all; and when she reached the castle itself, there at the entrance stood a man of immense stature, carrying a club and keys. As she approached he expressed surprise at the magnificence of the company, until, affecting to see the Queen for the first time, he went on with great wonder:

“Oh, God, a priceless pearl!

No worldly wight, I doubt—some sovereign goddess sure!

In face, in hand, in eye, in other features all,

Yes, beauty, grace and cheer—yea, port and majesty,

Shew all some heavenly peer with virtues all beset.

Come, come, most perfect paragon, pass on with joy and bliss:

Have here, have here, both club and keys, myself, my ward, I yield.

E’en gates and all, my lord himself, submit and seek your shield.”

The Queen smiled happily; she loved such eulogies; and she loved this particularly because it had been designed by her Robert.

As the company passed through the castle gates, Robert saw, for the first time, one in that company who made his heart leap with sudden pleasure.

Lettice Knollys had come to Kenilworth.

Robert conducted the Queen to her chamber. Through the windows she could see the fireworks which made a good display in the Park, a sign to the countryside that the Queen had come to Kenilworth. At intervals the guns boomed forth. It was as though a King entertained a Queen. And that was how Elizabeth would have it.

“Robert,” she said, “you are a lavish spender.”

“Who could spend too lavishly in the entertainment of Your Majesty?”

She gave him the familiar tap on the cheek, thinking: Age cannot take his charm from him. It is there just as it was in the days of his flaming youth; and now he is a subtler man, and I doubt not many would love him still; yet he has remained unmarried for my sake.

“I shall remember my stay in Kenilworth to the end of my days,” she said. Then, to hide her emotion, added: “The clock there has stopped.”

He smiled. “All clocks in the Castle were stopped the moment Your Majesty entered.”

She “pupped” her lips and raised her eyebrows.

“Time stands still for goddesses,” he said.

That was a nice touch and typical of Robert.

He took her hand and kissed it. “You have promised to rest here for twelve days. During that time we will forget clocks. We will forget all but the entertaining of Your Majesty.”

“There was never one like you … never!” she said tenderly.

“Madam,” he answered, “a goddess might lose her Mutton and her Bellwether, her attendant Moor, and even her Spirit; but her Eyes do her better service than any of these.”

“Mayhap there’s truth in that,” she said. “Now leave me, Robin. I am tired with the day’s journey.”

He bowed over her hand and raised it to his lips.

She was smiling affectionately after he had gone.

In a corridor he came face to face with Lettice, and he knew that she had waylaid him. She was more beautiful than she had been in those days when he had first attracted her. She was no longer Lady Hereford, for her husband had been made Earl of Essex. She seemed bolder, and because of that faint resemblance to the Queen which came from her grandmother, Mary Boleyn, she reminded him of the young Elizabeth whom he had known in the Tower of London.

“A merry day to you, my lord,” she said.

“I knew not that you would come.”

“You remember me?”

“Remember! I do indeed.”

“I am honored. So the great Earl of Leicester forgets me not! The most honored man in the realm—by the Queen if not by the people—does not forget a humble woman on whom he once looked without disfavor.” Her eyes flashed angrily. She was reminding him that he had dropped her while their affair had still promised much enjoyment to them both.

“How could a man look with disfavor on one so beautiful?” he asked.

“He might if his mistress commanded him to do so … if he were so much her creature that he dared do no other.”

“I am no one’s creature!” he retorted haughtily.

She came nearer and lifted her brown eyes to his face. “Then you have changed, my lord,” she mocked.

Robert was never at a loss. He could not with any credit to himself explain his neglect in words, so he embraced her and kissed her. Such kisses were more adequate than any words could have been.

Douglass came to his apartment, bringing her boy with her. Poor Douglass! She felt that their son might appeal to his affections, even if she could not.

He dismissed his servants, trusting he could rely on their loyalty.

“It was foolish of you to come here,” he burst out when they were alone.

“But, Robert, it is so long since I saw you. The boy so longed to see you.”

He lifted the boy in his arms. It seemed to him dangerously obvious that this little Robert had the Dudley looks. The child smiled and put his arms about Robert’s neck. He loved this handsome glittering man, although he did not know that he was his father.

“Well, my boy. What have you to say to me?”

“This is a big castle,” said the boy.

“And you like it, eh?”

The boy nodded, staring in fascination at his father’s face.

“Mamma says that it is Kenilworth.”

Had she said: “You are the rightful heir to Kenilworth!” No! she would not dare.

He held the boy against him. For the sake of this child he was almost ready to acknowledge Douglass as his wife. He would have been proud to have taken young Robert by the hand and introduce him to the company. “Behold my son!” What consternation those words would cause.

The Queen would never forgive him; and indeed, he was weary of this boy’s mother. Her meek compliance and her suppressed hysteria reminded him uncomfortably of Amy. Why could not these women fall out of love as easily as he could?

Lettice was a different kind of woman; and Lettice too had a fine son. She had called him Robert. Was that in memory of Robert Dudley? This boy of hers, now eight years old, was of outstanding beauty. Why should Lettice not give him sons?

He thought of their embrace in the corridor. They were two experienced people, he and Lettice; she could give him much that he had hoped for all his life, and which, because of the Queen, he had missed: pleasure, children, and family life.

Lettice had a husband. Robert shrugged his shoulders. Then he looked at Douglass, who was watching him closely, and it seemed to him that he heard the mocking laughter of Amy Robsart in that room.

He said angrily: “Have a care! This is a great indiscretion. If the Queen should discover aught, this might not only be the end of me but of you.”

She fell down onto her knees and covered her face with her hands. “Oh, Robert, I will take care. I promise you … she shall not know.”

“You should never have come here,” he reproved her.

But the boy, seeing his mother’s distress, began to cry, and, picking him up to comfort him, Robert thought: If his mother were another woman—not one of whom I am heartily tired—if she were Lettice, I believe I would marry her for the sake of this boy.

The next day, being a Sunday, all the company went to church; and later in the day there was a banquet more splendid than that of the previous day; there was dancing and music, and as soon as darkness came, the sky was illumined with greater and better displays of fireworks; and the guns boomed once more.

During that day three women thought often of their host, each longingly, each in her own way in love with him.

There was Douglass—apprehensive and nervous—knowing that he no longer loved her and that, but for the child, he would have wished he had never loved her; it seemed to her that throughout the Castle of Kenilworth there was an air of foreboding, of warning perhaps from another woman who had been Robert’s wife and whom he had found an encumbrance.

The Queen thought of him tenderly—the best loved of all men in her life. Even Thomas Seymour had never excited her as Robert did; she doubted whether, had Thomas lived, he could have held her affection as did this man. For all Robert’s weaknesses she loved him now as once she had loved him for his strength. In those glorious days of youth when he had been the hero of the tiltyard, she had loved him as the most perfect and virtuous man she knew. Now she knew him to be neither perfect nor virtuous, yet she loved him still. She was the very contented guest at Kenilworth.

Lettice’s thoughts were all of him. She wanted Robert for her lover, but she was no Douglass to be taken up and cast aside. If Robert Dudley became her lover she must become the Countess of Leicester. She brooded and smiled, for she was a woman who, when she wanted something badly, had found that it invariably fell into her hands.

The days were hot and sultry. The Queen kept within the castle until five in the evening, when she would ride forth with a great company of ladies and gentlemen to hunt in the surrounding country. There was always a pageant to greet her on her return to Kenilworth Park, and each day’s pageant strove to be more grand, more splendid than the last.

But the first day’s pleasure was clouded as the days passed. Perhaps she was tired of listening to speeches concerning her own virtues. Robert was preoccupied, and she had an uneasy feeling that this was not only due to the vast pains he was taking to entertain her. He was looking worn and strained.

She brought her horse close to his and asked: “Are you not sleeping well, my lord?”

He started, and such a look of guilt came into his face that her fears were increased. She suspected an entanglement with a woman. She knew Robert’s nature. It was to his eternal credit that he had remained outwardly faithful to her; but surely at such a time he would not dare to think of another woman.

“You start!” she said harshly. “Is it a crime then, not to sleep?”

“It should be a crime to be laid at my door, Your Majesty, if you did not sleep whilst under my roof.”

“We were not discussing my rest, but yours.”

“I feared that Your Majesty had been put in mind of the matter because of your own ill rest. I beg of you to tell me if your chamber be not to your liking. We will have it changed. We will have an apartment refurnished for you.”

She tapped him sharply on the arm. “A plain question demands a plain answer, my lord; and it should be given its reward … unless it is feared that the giving might not please.”

“My dearest lady, I would not wish to trouble you with my ailments.”

“So you are sick again?”

“It is naught but an internal humor.”

She laughed aloud in her relief. “You eat too much, my lord.”

“I could not expect Your Majesty to do full justice to my table unless I did so also. You might think I disdained that which had been prepared for your royal palate.”

“Then ’tis just a sickness of the body. I feared it might be an indisposition of the mind that kept you awake at night.”

Sensing her suspicion, he said: “Your Majesty shall know the truth. It is a woman.”

He saw her quick intake of breath and he turned to her with all the passionate fervor of which he was capable. “Knowing that she whom I love lies beneath my roof,” he said, “how could I sleep at night unless she lay with me.”

The Queen whipped her horse and galloped ahead; but he had seen the pleased smile on her face.

“My lord,” she said over her shoulder, “you are offensive. Pray do not ride beside me. I do not wish to scold my host, yet so great is my anger that I fear I shall do so.”

Nevertheless he kept beside her. “Your Majesty … nay … Elizabeth, sweetest Elizabeth as you were to me in the Tower … you have forgotten, but I shall remember till I die. You put too great a strain upon me.”

She spurred on her horse; and she did not speak to him again, but all her good humor was restored; and when the hart was caught alive in a pool, she cried: “Do not kill him. I am in a merciful mood. I will grant him his life, on condition that he loses his ears for a ransom.”

And she herself cut off the poor creature’s ears, and smiling, watched him rush bewildered away with the blood dripping from his head. Then she called out: “Where is mine host? Why is he not beside me?”

Robert came to her and they rode side by side back to Kenilworth.

“I trust, my lord,” she said primly, “that you will not so far forget yourself again. I might not be so lenient if you were to do so.”

“I would not swear it,” he answered. “I am but a man, and perchance must take the consequences of my rash speech.”

And while he complimented her he was thinking of Lettice and the many passionate meetings between them, the delight they found in each other, the sudden surrender of both which would not be checked, the knowledge that nothing on Earth could keep them apart, nor stem the violent passion which they each had for the other.

And if Elizabeth discovered this? He kept thinking of the trapped animal with the haunted look in his eyes as she had stood over him with the knife; he thought of the blood-lust of the huntress which showed in her face; and he thought of the poor creature, running from them. That was the Queen’s mercy.

In the Park a pageant was awaiting her. A tall man, dressed as the god Sylvanus, stood before her and recited a eulogy of her charms. But she was tired of his oration before he reached the end and, turning her horse, rode on. But the young poet, not to be outdone, and determined to serve his master in the praise of Her Majesty, ran beside her horse, declaiming her virtues; and she, with a wry smile, pulled up, for he was clearly suffering from loss of breath.

He bowed before her. “Your Majesty,” he said, “if it is your wish to proceed, pray do so. If my rude speech doth not offend your royal ears, I can run and speak for twenty miles or so. I would rather run as Your Majesty’s footman than be a god on horseback in heaven.”

She rewarded the man with a smile and gracious words, for she liked that tribute better than his verses. “I like,” she said, “that which comes from the heart better than that learned by it.”

But when Sylvanus had finished his speech, he broke the branch he was carrying and threw it from him. Unfortunately it fell near the Queen’s horse, which reared violently.

There was immediate consternation, but the Queen, controlling her horse, cried out: “No hurt! No hurt!” Then she turned to console Sylvanus, who was beside himself with grief.

Robert brought his horse close to the Queen’s. “Your Majesty,” he said, “I pray you let us go into the castle. I feel your precious person will be safer there.”

He was apprehensive as they entered the castle.

It had been an exciting day with the bears. Ban dogs, which had been kept locked away, were suddenly let loose on thirteen of them. The noise, the shrieks, the growls, and the tearing of flesh had set the Queen’s eyes sparkling.

The sun was hot and the Queen and some of her ladies were sitting in the shade of the trees on one of the lawns when a small boy made his way toward them.

He stood still and stared at the Queen. He was such a handsome little boy and the Queen, being fond of all handsome people, including children, called to him: “What is it, my little man? Have you come to see the Queen?”

“Yes,” said the boy.

“Then come closer that the Queen may see you.”

He came, his eyes wide. He laid his hands on her knees and looked up into her face. “You are a beautiful lady,” he said.

Nothing could have delighted her more.

“You are handsome enough yourself,” she answered. “You know who I am. Now tell me who you are.”

“I am Robert,” said the child.

She laughed. “That is my favorite name.”

He smiled and touched one of the aglets on her gown; as he bent his little head to study it she noticed how the dark hair curled about his neck. Involuntarily she put out a hand to touch it.

“What do you here, my child?”

He looked at her in astonishment.

“Who brought you?” she asked.

“My Mamma.”

“And who is your Mamma?”

“My Mamma!” he said with surprise.

“Of a certainty. How foolish of your Queen!” she beckoned to one of her women. “Whose boy is this, do you know?”

“My lady Sheffield’s, Your Majesty.”

The Queen frowned. “Sheffield died some time ago, did he not? I thought it long ago. How old are you, little one?”

“Three.”

Robert, seeing from afar that his son was with the Queen, felt dismayed and angry that this should be so. Who was responsible for this? He hesitated, wondering how much damage had been done, and whether it would be wiser now or later to face anything that had to be faced. He decided to go straight to the Queen and discover the worst.

He quickly realized that this was a mistake for, as soon as the child saw him, he deserted the Queen and running to Robert caught him about the knees and looked up at him with an expression which clearly indicated that this was not their first meeting.

With perfect naturalness Robert picked him up and said: “And what is this, and what do you here?”

The boy laughed and pulled at Robert’s beard.

“The young man seems very familiar with the Earl of Leicester,” said the Queen; and Robert fancied he heard the sharp note of suspicion in her voice.

“Who would not be friends with a boy like this?” he said lightly. He put down the boy and came to kneel before the Queen; he took her hand and asked if his humble entertainment left anything to be desired.

“We are being well entertained,” said Elizabeth with a trace of tartness.

The boy again trotted up.

“Whose son is this?” asked the Queen, looking at Robert.

“Lady Sheffield’s.”

“She is not of the Court now.”

“You remember Sheffield, Your Majesty. He was a friend of mine. His widow, with the boy, her friends and servants, has been resting here at Kenilworth while I was at Court. Then, Your Majesty, they expressed such a desire to see you that I could not turn them away.”

“We do not remember having seen them. Why have they not been presented?”

“Lady Sheffield has been indisposed.”

“I will see her at once.”

“I will myself inform her of Your Majesty’s pleasure.”

“Let a servant go to her and command her to come to me.”

Robert turned in order to see if there was any servant, whom he could trust, within reach. He saw such a man and called to him.

“Her Majesty wishes Lady Sheffield to come to her. Pray bring her here.”

“I will, my lord.”

“And,” added Robert, “take the boy with you. Doubtless his nurse will be looking for him.”

The servant went away with young Robert, while his father fervently hoped that Douglass would do what was expected of her.

The Queen talked of the bears, and how she had enjoyed the spectacle. But all the time Robert sensed that she was watching him closely.

To his great relief the servant came back alone.

“Lady Sheffield sends her thanks to Your Most Gracious Majesty. Lady Sheffield is distraught because she is so unwell that she cannot leave her bed. She begs that Your Majesty, with your well-known clemency, will excuse her for this occasion.”

“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.

She said to Elizabeth when they were alone: “Dearest Majesty, this Monkey and his master … you are not serious?”

“I am.”

“Would you then marry a man so much younger than yourself?”

“Am I so old then? Am I so ugly?”

“You are the youngest lady in the world—but that is in spirit, sweetheart. You are the most beautiful; but he is small and puny; and his skin is pock-marked.”

“How do you know?”

“We have heard it; and even his mother admits he has not the stature of his brother.”

“You meddle, Kat.”

“’Tis because of my love.”

“I know that. But I want no meddling.”

“Darling, why did you not marry him whom you truly love?”

“I know not whom you mean.”

“Ah yes, you do, darling. You have loved him long and he has loved you … and he is the one for you, and you for him.”

“Leicester!” she snapped; and her face hardened.

Was she thinking of Lady Sheffield and her child? wondered Kat. Or had she heard of the greater menace that was to come from the Countess of Essex?

Kat did not know and dared not ask; but she believed that it must be of Lady Sheffield that the Queen was thinking, for she would be less composed if she knew of his liaison with Lettice.

“What!” she cried. “Shall I so far forget myself as to prefer a poor servant of my own making to the first Prince in Christendom?”

Kat shook her head and was filled with sorrow.

“God preserve your Majesty from all unhappiness,” she murmured.

And Elizabeth lifted a hand to pat Kat’s arm affectionately.

Robert was on his way to a meeting with Douglass. He had asked her to come that day to the Close Arbor in the grounds about Greenwich Palace.

He was worried concerning Douglass, who was becoming hysterical now that she guessed something of his plans regarding Lettice. Douglass had a post in the Queen’s bedchamber and that was a highly dangerous situation, since it brought her into close contact with the Queen.

He had made up his mind.

He had heard of Elizabeth’s words to Kat Ashley; and he was sure now that, for many years, she had had no intention of marrying. Perhaps if he had never married Amy, if he had been free when they were both young, there would have been a different story to tell. But it was too late to think of that. He wanted children. He thought often of all the fine young men about the Court today who were the sons of his contemporaries. There were boys like Philip and Robert Sidney, and Bacon’s son Francis; there was Lettice’s own son Robert Devereux, since his father’s death, the Earl of Essex; and even Burghley’s son, young Robert Cecil, though humpbacked and far from prepossessing, was a son. The Queen was fond of him in spite of his lack of beauty, and this was not only because he was his father’s son; his keen wits and alert intelligence made him a son of whom to be proud; even the Queen, who could not tolerate ugliness, had a fondness for him and had christened him her Pigmy. And he, Robert, had no legitimate son! Come what may, he had decided to marry Lettice.

Accompanying him to this tryst with Douglass were a few of his trusted servants, those whose fortunes were so closely bound with his own that they dared not betray him even if they wished to do so.

Douglass was waiting for him.

He posted several of his men outside the Close Arbor that he might be warned of the approach of any whom he would not wish to witness this meeting between himself and Douglass.

She was pale and trembling.

He smiled kindly at her and, laying his hand on her shoulder, said: “You must not be afraid, Douglass. As you know, I have long both loved and liked you. I have always found that earnest and faithful affection in you which has bound me greatly to you. Douglass, that still exists, does it not?”

“It does,” she answered.

“But I made clear, did I not, on my first coming to you, in what sort my good will should and must always remain to you? It seemed to me that you were fully disposed to accept this.”

“It was before the child was born,” she said.

“But I had made my meaning clear ere that time. Had I not told you that I was not free to marry, that if I did and the Queen should hear of it, I were undone, disgraced, and cast out of favor forever?”

“Yes, but that was before the child came … and we were married.”

“It was no true marriage, Douglass. It was entered into for the sake of your peace of mind. You have no claim on me, but I will give you seven hundred pounds a year if you will disclaim that false ceremony and forget that it happened.”

“I could not do it.”

“You must,” he insisted.

“I must think of my son. Shall he face the world as a bastard?”

“We must all face the world as we are, my dear. Have no fear as to his future. I will watch him as carefully and with as much love and affection as though he were my legitimate son.”

“I cannot. I cannot. I believe he is your legitimate son. He is your heir.”

“Think over what I have said. Take the money I offer. Accept my good services for your son; for if you do not, what good can come to yourself and to him? I should never see you again and you would have no money from me. But take this income; admit there was no marriage; and all will go well with you and with him.”

She shook her head and began to weep as he took his leave of her.

Douglass lay on her bed. Her women stood round her. She had long lain staring at the tester, and those about her feared for her sanity.

One of her maids, who had been with her since she was a child, had wept bitterly when she had witnessed her mistress’s infatuation for the Earl of Leicester.

Now this good servant dismissed the women and sat by her mistress’s bed, quietly watching her; and when she saw that the tears had started to flow down Douglass’s cheeks she came nearer and said quietly: “Dearest mistress, do as he asks. It is the only way. Remember Amy Robsart … and remember what has recently befallen a gentleman in Ireland.”

Douglass did not answer her but asked that her child be brought to her.

The boy knelt on the bed and asked her why she was so sad; but she merely shook her head and said: “It will pass.”

“I know of one who could make you happy,” he said. “I will find him and bring him to you.”

Wearily she shook her head.

“But you are always happy when the great Earl comes to see you … and so am I!”

She looked at him sadly and, drawing him to her, she kissed him.

“You and I will be happy together, my darling,” she said at last.

But she seemed to hear a voice warning her: “Be wise. Remember Amy Robsart!”

Robert and Lettice were married at Kenilworth that summer. They were reckless, both of them; yet they strove to keep their secret from the Queen.

Lettice’s family heard what had happened, and insisted that the ceremony be repeated under their auspices at their house in Wanstead. They were not going to see their daughter in the position of poor Douglass Howard.

The Knollys family had been greatly disturbed when they heard of their daughter’s infatuation, and at the lengths to which it had carried her and the Earl. No one in the kingdom believed Robert guiltless of the murder of his first wife, and now the name of Essex was added to his victims. Rumors concerning him had multiplied, and yet, oddly enough, the news of the marriage had so far not reached the Queen.

But when Lettice’s family had assured themselves that Robert could not repudiate the marriage even if he wished to do so, and when they considered his power and his Protestant leanings, they realized the great advantages which could accrue from a connection between their house and his.

Philip of Spain had carried his persecution too far when he had set up the Inquisition in the Netherlands. William the Silent was leading his people against the tyranny and fanatical cruelties of the Spaniards. It was more than a local struggle. It was a world-wide struggle between Protestants and Catholics; and the Knollys’s—that great Protestant family—wished to see England join in the struggle; they held, as did many statesmen, that the Queen’s aversion from war might lead the country to disaster, and that refusal to join the smaller conflict with friends might leave her to face a greater one alone. If Spain were victorious in the Netherlands, undoubtedly Philip’s savage fanaticism would be turned against the greatest stronghold of Protestantism in the world, which was England.

The Protestant Party must stand firm and strengthen itself in every way possible; and, in marrying a daughter of the foremost Protestant house, it was considered that Robert had abandoned his lukewarm profession of Protestantism and was now its staunch ally. Robert’s nephew, Philip Sidney, had married the daughter of another great Protestant, Sir Francis Walsingham. So now, as one of the greatest statesmen of the day, by his marriage with Lettice Robert found himself looked upon as the leader of the Protestant Party. And the Protestant Party opposed the Queen’s marriage with the Duke of Anjou.

Meanwhile Elizabeth continued to flirt with her Monkey, who was becoming more and more impatient with the passing of every day.

Would not Her Majesty allow him to bring her the marriage contracts? he was continually asking. His master was well-nigh sick with love of her.

She became perverse, as she always was when matters were being driven toward a conclusion.

“Dear Monkey,” she said, “I could not decide on marrying a man whom I have not seen.”

“Madame, I assure you he is the most handsome Prince in Christendom.”

“We have heard views to the contrary.”

“If he lacks a little in stature, he makes up for it in the bigness of his heart, Your Majesty.”

“But those pock-marks! I think of them often.”

“Now that his beard has grown, they are scarcely visible.”

“And the French are such deceivers. I think of his father who kept a mistress to whom he did more honor than to his wife.”

“He is more enamored of Your Majesty than any man ever was—even of his mistress.”

“As for his grandfather, I am too modest to speak of his conduct.”

“Ah! The Duke comes from a family of great lovers.”

“Lovers of women who were not their wives!”

“Those Kings loved incomparable women. King François loved above all others Madame de Chateaubriand and Madame d’Étampes; but these, Madame, were goddesses, not women. And my master’s father, great Henri Deux, loved throughout his life Diane de Poitiers. She too was a goddess. But there is one goddess incomparably beyond all others, a hundred times more beautiful, a thousand times more fascinating. She wears the crown of England; and I swear on my life that when my master sees her he will never think of another woman.”

“All the same I should wish to see a man before I married him!”

“Then, Your Majesty, allow me to bring him to you.”

“I am but a woman, dear Monkey. My ministers command me. They speak against the marriage.”

“The greatest Queen on Earth in fear of her ministers!”

“And my people … they murmur against the marriage.”

“Are you not their ruler, Madame?”

“In the long run rulers rule only by the will of their people.”

Simiers was growing angry. Always there was hope and then this perpetual frustration. Sometimes he felt it was all more than he could endure.

He knew who his enemies were. He realized that he was being outwitted by the Protestant Party, and at the head of that Party was the man who had on more than one occasion prevented the Queen’s marrying a French suitor.

The climax came when the Queen invited Monsieur Simiers to accompany her in her barge from Hampton to Greenwich. Elizabeth had been in conversation with Simiers and, as soon as the Frenchman took his leave of her, a shot rang out. It had been fired from a nearby boat.

There was great consternation, and in the confusion, the marksman, in his boat, made off. One of the Queen’s bargemen lay on the deck of the royal barge, shot through the arm.

The Queen was calmer than those about her, in spite of the fact that she believed this to have been an attempt on her life. She unwound her scarf and bound up the man’s wound herself.

“Be of good cheer,” she comforted him. “I shall see that you never want. That bullet was meant for your Queen, and you took it in her stead.”

But the bullet had passed very close to Monsieur Simiers, and he had his own ideas about the intended target.

Back in his apartments he paced up and down in angry exasperation.

“Now,” he said to the members of his suite, “they are attempting to take my life. What can I do? How can I bring about a match between Monsieur and such a woman? They are barbarians, these people. And I know who is the instigator of this plot. It is Leicester. Would to God some of his enemies would take it into their heads to kill him. If that could be done, much trouble might be saved.”

“He still hopes,” said one of Simiers’ men, “to marry the Queen himself.”

“I do not see how that can be,” said another, “for I heard news of my lord of Leicester only the other day and, if it is true, he must have lost all hope of marrying Her Majesty.”

“What story is this?”

“It is said that he has married the Countess of Essex.”

Simiers threw back his head and laughed aloud. Then he became serious. “Did not the Earl of Essex die mysteriously in Ireland some time ago?”

“That is so.”

“And there was an inquiry into his death conducted by Leicester’s brother-in-law! Come, this is the best news I have heard since I first set foot in this land. We have played Monsieur Leicester’s game too long. Now he shall play ours.”

Simiers presented himself to the Queen.

“Your Majesty blooms like a rose … and that after your mishap on the river!”

“’Twas nothing, Monsieur Monkey. A Queen must be prepared for any possibility.”

“She needs a strong arm to protect her.”

“Do not fear, Monsieur; she is strong enough to protect herself.”

“She needs the affection of a husband. Will you not sign this document which I have prepared? It is a summons to my master to appear before you. Once he sees this he will come with all speed. Then you will see for yourself how he adores you; and, Your Majesty, so handsome is he, that I doubt not you will find him the most irresistible man you have ever set eyes upon.”

She pretended to consider this. How could she send for him? Did she want trouble with France? To send for him and refuse him would be an insult they would never overlook. One did not inspect Princes as one did a horse.

“Ah, would it were in my power, dear Monkey. These ministers of mine …”

“Your Majesty should marry. Is not marriage in the air? Those about you enjoy its blessings. Will Your Majesty remain aloof from them?”

“Those about me? You mean … some of my ladies?”

“Nay, Your Majesty; I was referring to my lord of Leicester and his recent marriage to the beautiful Countess of Essex.”

She put out a hand as though to steady herself. He snatched it and put it to his lips.

She did not see his ugly face. She only saw those two together: Lettice, who was not unlike herself, but younger and more beautiful, and Robert, her favorite whom she loved as she would never love another person.

She could not doubt the words of this man. She wondered why she had not guessed what had happened. She remembered now the change in Robert and the mincing complacency of that she-wolf. There had been secret looks among her ladies and gentlemen.

Now she was possessed by such rage as she had never felt before.

“Where is this document, man?” she cried harshly.

“Here … here, Your Majesty.” Simiers turned from her to hide the triumph in his eyes. He spread the papers on a table and handed her a pen.

Even her signature was an angry one.

“Your Majesty, my master will be enraptured. This will be the happiest day of his life …”

“Leave me now,” she said.

Sly and knowledgeable, hiding his delight, he bowed low and hurried away before she could change her mind.

Now there was no longer need for restraint. “Where are my women?” she shouted. “Why do they not attend me? Kat … you sly devil, where are you? What have you been doing all these weeks?”

They came running in and stood before her, trembling.

“What news of Leicester?” she spat out at them.

They were silent, each waiting for another to speak first.

She stamped her foot. “What of that snake?” she screamed. “What of Leicester?” She took the woman nearest her and shook her until she begged for mercy.

The Queen’s hair had broken loose from her headdress; her eyes grew wilder and purple color flamed into her face.

No one dared speak until at last Kat said: “Dearest Majesty … dearest … dearest …”

“Did you not hear me?” shouted the Queen. “I said: ‘What of that snake who calls himself a man?’ So he has married that sly animal, has he? He has married that low creature, that she-wolf?”

“Majesty,” said Kat, “it is true. They married …”

“They married!” cried Elizabeth. “Did they ask my consent? Did they keep it secret? Did you? Did you … and you?” Each “you” was accompanied by a stinging blow on the cheek for all those nearest. “And you … and you and … you … knew this, and thought it meet to keep it from me?”

“Dearest, dearest!” begged Kat. And in an agonized whisper she added: “Remember … remember … do not betray your feelings thus.”

Elizabeth was swaying vertiginously with the intensity of her emotion.

“Quick!” cried Kat. “Help me unlace Her Majesty’s bodice. There, my love. Kat has you. Come, lie on your couch, darling. You’ll feel better then. Kat’s here beside you.”

With great presence of mind Kat dismissed all the women; she knelt by the couch, chafing the Queen’s hands while the tears ran down Kat’s cheeks and words babbled from her lips. “Oh, my darling, I would have given my life to spare you this. But, dearest, you would not marry him. You must not blame him …”

“Blame him!” flared Elizabeth. “By God’s Body, I’ll blame him! He shall pay for all the pleasure he has had with her.”

“Darling, it was only natural. You see, he has been so long unmarried.”

“Have I not been long unmarried?”

“But it was my darling’s royal wish.”

“They shall lose their heads for this, and I’ll see the deed done.”

“Be calm, my sweeting. Be quiet, my sweet Bess. Let me get you a little wine.”

“You know I do not like wine.”

“I’ll mix water with it. It will revive you, dearest. There … there … that’s better.”

“It is not better, Kat. It will never be better. You know how I loved him.”

“But you did not marry him, dearest.”

“Stop all this talk of marriage. You do it but to torment me.”

“Dearest Majesty, remember you are the Queen. You must not show your jealousy like this. You are above such things.”

“I am indeed. I am above them all, and I’ll have obedience. They shall go to the Tower at once … both of them.”

“Yes, yes, my love. They shall go to the Tower.”

“If you try to soothe me, Madam, and continue to talk to me as though I am four years old, you shall accompany them to the Tower.”

“Yes, darling, so I shall.”

“Oh Kat! What a deceiver! What a scoundrel!”

“He is the worst man in the world,” said Kat.

“How dare you say it! You know he is not. It is all her fault. Ha! Little does he know the woman he has married. Let him discover.”

She stood up suddenly. Kat watched her fearfully as she strode to the door.

She said to the guards there: “The Earl of Leicester is here at Greenwich, is he not?”

“He is, Your Majesty.”

“Then go to his apartments with a party of the strongest guards. Place him under close arrest, and tell him he may expect to leave shortly for the Tower.”

She came back to her couch and, flinging herself upon it, gave way to bitter weeping.

All England was talking about the “Mounseer.” He had come to England, and he had come without ceremony, and in disguise had appeared suddenly at Greenwich with only two servants, asking to be taken to Her Majesty that he might throw himself at her feet.

He was very small and far from handsome; his face was dark and pock-marked; but he could murmur the kind of compliment that delighted the Queen as none of her courtiers—not even Robert—had been able to do. His clothes were exquisite; he could foot a measure with such grace as to make Christopher Hatton appear clumsy; he displayed French graces of such elegance that Elizabeth, smarting under what she privately called Leicester’s betrayal, declared that she was charmed with him.

Robert and Lettice were under arrest, and Elizabeth had the satisfaction of knowing that they could not meet. She had not sent Robert to the Tower as she had at first intended; Burghley with Sussex had begged her not to do so and thereby expose her jealousy and passion to the world. To keep him a prisoner at Greenwich until her anger cooled was one thing; to make him a state prisoner in the Tower quite another, they cautioned her.

She saw the wisdom of this advice, and kept Robert prisoner at Greenwich in his own apartments, while she amused herself with Monsieur.

And how she seemed to enjoy herself! At least it was some balm to her misery. Kat, who loved her so tenderly, in dismay watched her caressing the little Prince in public. She had quickly nick-named him her Frog, and continually wore on her bosom a jeweled ornament in the shape of a frog.

But the country was not pleased with the suitor. The marriage would be a ridiculous one, it was said, since the Queen was forty-six and Anjou twenty-three. Was it possible for the Queen to have a child at her age? it was asked. And what other reason could there be for the marriage?

A man named Stubbs published a pamphlet he had written denouncing the match.

“This man,” he wrote, “is the son of King Henry, whose family ever since he married with Catherine of Italy is fatal as it were to resist the gospel and have been, every one after the other, as a Domitian after a Nero.”

Stubbs and his publisher were imprisoned by order of the Queen, and both condemned to have their right hands cut off. Crowds gathered in the market place at Westminster to see this done, and the people murmured against the Queen.

This grieved Elizabeth; but she had, in a moment of passion, sent for the Duke, and she dared not risk offending the French by allowing their royal family to be insulted while the Duke was actually her guest.

Philip Sidney—who was handsome, gifted and charming as well as being Robert’s nephew—was one of the Queen’s favorite younger men. He now wrote to her in a manner which was more insulting to the French Prince than even Stubbs had been.

“How the hearts of your people will be galled,” he wrote, “if not aliened when they see you take as husband a Frenchman and a papist, in whom the very common people know this: he is the son of that Jezebel of our age, and his brother made oblation of his own sister’s marriage, the easier to massacre our brethren in religion …”

Philip Sidney was banished from the Court.

There were storms in the Parliament. Some of her ministers were quite blunt, saying she was old enough to be the Duke’s mother. Others, more politic, implied the same thing in a more courteous way: They did not wish to see the Queen risk her life by attempting to bear children.

And Elizabeth, when she was not flirting with Monsieur, or raging against Robert—or fretting for him—was thinking of what was happening in the Netherlands, and how Philip of Spain was gaining domination over the poor suffering people of that land; and she wondered what would happen when he had completely subdued them.

Then, all the world thought, and Elizabeth must think it too, his attention would turn to England, for was not his dream to abolish Protestantism throughout the world, and was not England a refuge for the Huguenots of France and the Netherlands?

Elizabeth could tremble when she thought of that day. The great dread of her life was war; and even now that dread seeped through her miseries caused by Robert’s defection, and curbed her gaiety in the French Prince’s wooing.

While her statesmen wondered how a woman of her age and genius could act with such girlish folly, simpering, giggling, urging her wooer on to what—in the eyes of Englishmen—seemed the most foppish folly, she was flattering him as he was flattering her. Not only did she lead him to believe that he was a very fascinating man, but she let him know that she considered he was born to command an army; and since it was the destiny of France to go to war with Spain, and she was sure there was a kingdom to be won in the Netherlands by a man of courage, spirit, and genius, such as Monsieur undoubtedly possessed, she wondered why he did not seek his fortune in Flanders.

His brother, a young man, was on the throne of France; it was a sad thing, she knew from experience, to be near the throne and have serious doubts of ever reaching it. There were always plots and counter-plots; it was a wise thing to make a kingdom for oneself; and if one were a man, brave as a lion, a military genius—as she was convinced her little Frog was—he should first win his kingdom, and then come for his bride.

She knew the man with whom she was dealing. He had need to assert himself. As little Hercule, the youngest of his family, he had suffered much humiliation. To be small and ugly and to have been marred by the pox was bad enough, but to be called Hercule into the bargain had been an intolerable insult which Fate had given him. Mercifully his name had been changed to François, but no one could change his face. His mother disliked him because he was his brother’s enemy, and he believed that she had tried to poison him. He needed to show the world what a great man he was, and he was determined that all should see him as Queen Elizabeth had. He would go to the Netherlands and fight the Spaniards.

The Queen, he believed, was so much in love with him that she would help him to finance his expedition.

So the Queen sat smiling, and her ministers marveled that the seemingly foolish woman was sending Anjou away in the utmost amity to fight England’s war in the Netherlands. Should the money be granted? Indeed it should! This was a master-stroke of policy.

The Queen was so pleased with her plan—and glad in truth to say good-bye to her little Frog, who was beginning to tire her—that she smiled on all the world.

He must have an escort to take him across the sea, she declared.

“Master Leicester has been idle too long. I will put him in command of my dear Frog’s escort and make some use of the man.”

This was a sign to all that once more she had forgiven Robert.