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

FIVE

The Queen began her triumphant journey to London, and as she rode through the countryside she was smiling at the cheering people who lined her way.

“God bless the Queen!” they cried. “Long may Elizabeth reign over us!”

She was young and fair; she had always shown a fondness for the people, and they loved her. Now, they promised themselves, there would be an end to the terrible fires which had been burning, not only in Smithfield Square but in many other parts of the country. This was the end of persecution. Bloody Mary was dead and England would be merry again.

At Highgate the Bishops were waiting to receive her. She was gracious to them, although making an exception of Bonner, who had been persecutor-in-chief since the death of Gardiner. Would that old enemy were here! she brooded. It would have been pleasant to have had Master Gardiner trembling before her. The people noticed her cold manner to Bonner and they cheered afresh.

She rode on for her traditional entry to the Tower, and there was great rejoicing as she passed through the City’s gates.

Now she sat in a splendid chariot which was drawn along Barbican to Cripplegate that she might be received by the Lord Mayor and the City dignitaries. When she had received their homage she remounted her horse, and magnificent she looked in her purple velvet. There was no need now to wear somber clothes; she had no rival now. She was the Queen.

She was continually aware of her Master of Horse who rode beside her. What attention he aroused! Some of the women looked at him instead of their Queen. He glittered with jewels—a dazzling figure.

“That is Lord Robert Dudley,” people whispered, “who came so near to losing his head in the last reign. Did you ever see such a man!”

“They say he compares with His Majesty King Henry the Eighth in the days of his glowing youth.”

Let him win their approval, meditated the Queen. Let them all see him as she saw him. She was not sure what role she had in store for him; and she wanted the people to retain a picture of him—magnificent, towering above all others.

Music filled the air; gay tapestry banners hung from the windows. As she reached the Church of Blanch Chapleton on the corner of Mart Lane she heard the Tower guns begin to boom. Through Tower Street she went, and she paused to listen to the children of St. Paul’s singing her praises, remembering—it seemed long ago now—how they had sung her sister’s.

She prayed: “Oh God, help me in this task. Help me to play my part nobly and honorably.”

She was filled with emotion. Her greatest desire had been granted; she must prepare herself to fulfill her duty and be worthy of the role. She was even glad of her misfortunes for she had come safely through them, and they had taught her more than easy living would have done.

All these people who cheered her now should be her first consideration. She would not be foolish as her sister Mary had been. Mary too had ridden into London to the cheers of her people; but these same people now called her Bloody Mary; they reviled her for making a Spanish marriage and bringing foreigners among them; they blamed her for the loss of Calais; they rejoiced that she was dead.

It should not be so with Elizabeth. They should love her, these common people, all the days of her life. They were her strength; she would sacrifice anything rather than their devotion. She must never forget that they were the pillars which supported the throne.

At this sacred time she was oblivious of the picture she made in her purple velvet; she had forgotten her Master of Horse; she was only a Queen, determined to rule wisely, determined to make her country great.

It was a solemn moment when she entered the Tower.

All the officials were waiting to make obeisance to her. She dismounted. All about her were the nobility of England; and instead of the pride she had expected to feel at such a time, she was conscious only of a deep humility.

The words she spoke were spontaneous. “Some,” she said, “have fallen from Princes in this land, to be prisoners in this place; I am raised from being a prisoner in this place to be a Prince of this land. That dejection was a work of God’s justice; this advancement is a work of His mercy. As they were to yield patience for the one, so I must bear myself to God thankful, and to men merciful for the other.”

She turned then to the Lieutenant of the Tower.

“Conduct me now to those apartments which I occupied when I was a prisoner here.”

This was done, and she went into them wonderingly; and in great emotion she fell once more upon her knees and thanked God for her deliverance. “For,” she said, “like Daniel I have come safely out of the lions’ den, and I shall never forget His Mercy.”

There was no sign of the frivolous girl on that memorable day when Elizabeth came to the Tower of London as Queen.

Mary was buried with great pomp, and the Queen attended the burial. Dr. White, the Bishop of Winchester, preached the funeral sermon, and that day he proved himself to be a bold man.

He spoke of the late Queen, sighing over her many virtues, and he spoke with vehement regret. She had been a wise woman, a great Queen; she had renounced Church Supremacy; she had declared that St. Paul forbade women to speak in Church and that it was not therefore fitting for the Church to have a dumb head.

How dared he speak thus! brooded the young Queen, as she sat quietly before him. How dared he, the old graybeard! He doubtless saw only a young woman sitting before him; he would have to learn something of the spirit within that youthful body.

Fortunately the sermon was in Latin and there were few who understood as Elizabeth did.

He wept when he talked of Mary, declaring that their greatly lamented Queen had left a sister who was a worthy lady whom they were all obliged to obey. This they must do perforce. Melior est canis vivus leone mortuo.

The blue eyes were burning points of fire. She a live dog and Mary a dead lion! He should learn something of the lion heart beneath these glittering queenly jewels. The insolent man clearly did not understand the nature of his Queen. A live dog indeed!

As Dr. White left the pulpit, the Queen rose. She cried to her guards: “Arrest that man.”

The Bishop lifted a hand to hold off the guards who had immediately sprung forward to carry out the Queen’s orders.

“Your Majesty,” he said, “it is in my power to excommunicate you unless you insist that your subjects adhere to Rome.”

Her father would have sent him to his death. But she was not yet as strong as her father, although in one way she was stronger. The years of danger had taught her to curb her anger when it was necessary to do so. She could see in the Bishop’s eyes what she believed to be a fervent desire for martyrdom. She would not let him indulge it. The people had hated persecutions. She had stopped them, and men such as this Bishop should not goad her into restarting them.

Calmly she watched her orders being carried out. Let him cool his fanaticism in prison. Time would show her how to act, for Time was as important to a Queen as it had been to a captive Princess.

The Queen gathered together her Privy Council. William Cecil was at her right hand, and she gave the Great Seal to Nicholas Bacon; and of the late Queen’s Council, Lord William Howard, with Arundel and Sackville, were allowed to remain in office.

So far none had noticed the tender looks which she bestowed on her Master of Horse. His office meant that he must necessarily be in constant attendance; and the fact that he had been chosen for the post aroused no comment. His knowledge of equestrian matters was undoubtedly great; and all agreed that no one looked quite so magnificent on a horse as the handsome Dudley.

But during those first weeks of queenship, Elizabeth’s thoughts were more of state matters than of love. Each morning she awakened to a sense of power and excitement, but never did she forget those lessons she had learned during the days of adversity.

Her first task was to break away from the Pope, and this she must do without offending her Catholic subjects, for they were many. Therefore there should be no overt break. The change should be gradual, so that she might feel the temper of the people as she made it.

The Mass was still celebrated in all churches, and Elizabeth attended regularly; but on Christmas Day she left the church after the service and just as the Bishop was preparing to conduct High Mass.

She had taken a firm step in the direction which she intended to follow, but not another step should be taken until she knew the effect her conduct would have on the people.

There was no doubt about the verdict on her conduct. Too many remembered the Smithfield fire. England was not made for fanaticism; the English loved Justice too much to have any regard for its natural enemy, Persecution. Only a few deplored her action and those—considering the case of Dr. White, who might so easily have become a martyr for his public abuse of her—did not believe that she would persecute them as her sister had persecuted the Protestants.

Elizabeth knew then that it was safe to take the next step, and on another great occasion—that of New Year’s day—she proclaimed that the church services were to be held in English.

Thoughts of her Coronation occupied her mind. She looked forward to it with great eagerness; it had figured largely in her dreams; and now she wished to discuss it with one whose triumph was her triumph and who should have his prominent part to play in its ceremonies.

What a joy it was to be in his company during those days of preparation! It seemed the more exciting to her because they were never alone together. Always surrounding her were her Councillors of state or the ladies of her bedchamber. Poor Robert! She knew he was at times incensed, for how could he say what he wished in the presence of these people! He must keep his distance, address her as his Queen; he must play the subject, never the lover. Her royalty was between them now as once his prison walls had been. Yet each day she knew that she was more deeply in love with him, for if she did not see him she was fretful and disappointed. She could not continually demand to know where he was. She was trying to exercise her usual caution. She would not wish to tell the Court that she was in love with her Master of Horse.

I verily believe, she thought, that I would marry him. But he has a wife. Does he forget that, the sinful man!

She should be grateful to that woman. What was her name? Anne? Amy? She pretended not to remember. Stupid little country wench! What had she had to attract him in the first place?

There was nothing she liked so much as to escape from her councillors and sit among her courtiers—if Robert were with them—and talk of pleasure: masques, balls, and all the ceremonies which must attend her coronation.

“I doubt not,” she said one day, “that the Lord Mayor and his fellows will give me as good a Coronation as they gave my sister. Would I knew which would be the most propitious day. What do you think, my Lord Dudley?”

“The day would be unimportant, Your Majesty.”

“How so?”

“The very fact of its being your Majesty’s Coronation day would make it the greatest any of us had ever lived through.”

“What means the man? Do you know, Mistress Ashley?”

“I think he means that the greatest boon this country has ever received was your Majesty’s accession to the throne,” said Kat.

“Mistress Ashley has explained my meaning, Madam,” said Robert.

She looked from him to the lady who was sitting beside him—a dark, and sparkling-eyed beauty. The sight did not please the Queen.

“I pray you, do not shout at me from such a distance, Master Dudley. Come here and sit beside me.”

Willingly he came, his eyes adoring, pleading: Why cannot I see you alone? Why must there always be these people between us?

She wanted to answer: Because I am the Queen and you were foolish enough to marry a country girl. If you had been a wiser man, who knows what I might not have done for you!

Was he too familiar? Now he looked a little sullen. Was he a little too certain of her favor? She could not reprove him before her ladies and gentlemen. If she did, he might absent himself from her presence, and that would be as much punishment for her as for him.

She fancied those about her were smiling slyly. Had they noticed her preference? Her reign was too young for her to make any false steps.

Kat said to her later: “Your Majesty, they are beginning to notice. There are whispers.”

“Of what do you speak, woman?”

“Of our dark and handsome gentleman, Madam. It is noticed that your eyes are often upon him, and that you like not to see him laughing with other ladies.”

“I’ll not endure such insolence. Who are these gossips?”

“The whole Court, Your Majesty. And ’tis true, you know. You give away your feelings. You could not show them more plainly if you put your arms about his neck and kissed him before them all.”

Elizabeth so far forgot her queenly dignity as to box Kat’s ears. But Kat knew that her warning had gone home.

Elizabeth was perturbed.

At the next assembly she said: “I wish for the advice of Dr. Dee on my Coronation. You will go to him, my Lord Dudley, and ascertain from him which day would be more suited to that event.”

“When does Your Majesty expect me to leave?”

“At once … at once.”

He looked at her reproachfully. Even if it were only for a short time, he was being sent away from Court. He was hurt and angry. But so was she.

She watched him leave, with such longing in her eyes that Kat felt she merely betrayed herself the more.

When Robert left the Court for his visit to the Queen’s favorite astrologer, Dr. Dee, he was in an exalted frame of mind.

Elizabeth had not hidden her feelings from him. He knew enough of his powers to recognize in her the same longings he had so often encountered in others. Very soon, he was sure, that longing would grow to such magnitude that not all her pride nor all her royalty would be allowed to stand in its way.

He contemplated the future with complacence. No member of his family had risen as he would rise. But there was one obstacle—Amy.

The very thought of her angered him. He compared her with Elizabeth. The Queen attracted him apart from her royalty. Had she not been the daughter of Henry the Eighth she would have been his mistress ere this, he was sure. But she was doubly desirable; not only could she give him erotic satisfaction but that crown which his father had intended for Guildford.

He would be King of the realm, for no woman had yet refused him what he demanded; and Elizabeth had shown quite clearly that she was essentially a woman.

He could not ignore Amy. She was becoming restive; she wanted to come to Court and share in her husband’s good fortune. She wrote asking if he were in love with some lady of the Court who was demanding all his attention. Amy had discovered the truth. Elizabeth certainly demanded constant thought, constant attention.

Dr. Dee welcomed him warmly at his country residence and, on consulting his charts, decided that the 15th of January would be a very good day for the crowning of the Queen.

When he left the astrologer, as he was not far from Siderstern, he felt that it would be a good opportunity of seeing Amy and making some attempt to stifle her desires to share his life at Court. He was afraid that if he did not visit her, she might decide to come to Court to see him. He did not think the Queen would be very pleased to see Amy at Court.

When he reached the house it was early afternoon and all was quiet. He sent his servants to the stables with the horses and went into the house to find Amy.

The hall was deserted; he went quickly up the staircase and along the gallery to the bedroom which he shared with Amy when he lived in the house.

Someone was in the room, bending over a press. It was Pinto.

“So … Pinto!” he said.

She straightened and bobbed a curtsy. She was embarrassed, he saw. “Lord Robert! We were not expecting you.”

“I know it. And your mistress?”

“She is riding with her father, my lord.”

“Is anything wrong, Pinto?” he asked.

“Wrong, my lord! No … no. All will be well for my lady now that you are here.”

Lightly he wondered why Pinto interested him; but he knew almost at once. She was not ill-favored; and she was deeply conscious of him. In her case it was not love but dislike which he engendered. What a strange woman Pinto must be!

She was preparing to hurry from the room, but he felt in a mischievous mood.

“Do not let me disturb you, Pinto. Do not hurry away.”

“I was merely putting away my lady’s things.”

“Then I pray you continue to do so.”

“But I have finished, my lord.”

He came toward her slowly, aware that her agitation was increasing. “What is it, Pinto?” He caught her chin in his hands and looked into her eyes. “I like it not that you should mistrust me. I like it not that you should run away when I appear, and cast those fearful glances at me when you think I do not see.”

“But, my lord …”

He bent his head swiftly and kissed her. He was almost as astonished as she was, and for a moment he sensed a deep pleasure.

She twisted free and ran from the room. He was smiling as he watched her. How foolish he had been to think that she hated him. She was after all a woman.

Poor Pinto! She covered her feelings for him under a veil of mistrust and suspicion. There was no need for her to fear. Her virtue was safe from him.

When Amy came riding home and found him there she was almost hysterical with delight.

“But Robert, why did you not send a message!” she cried, throwing herself at him. “I’ve missed hours of your company, and you will be running away ere long, I doubt not.”

He was charming as he knew so well how to be. “It is wonderful to be home,” he said, “away from the garish Court.”

“You speak as though you do not like it there.”

“How can I when it keeps me from you … and home?”

She could not keep her hands from caressing him. She pouted and said that she had heard rumors.

“Rumors of what?”

“It is said that the Queen greatly favors you.”

“The Queen is just. She remembers those who were her friends in adversity.”

“Yes. But they say you are a special favorite.”

“It is just talk.”

Later he rode with her through the estates; he must see the new lambs and watch the sowing of the oats and beans; he feigned delight in these things and congratulated himself that he had escaped from them forever.

He could not keep the knowledge from her that this was a flying visit.

“No … no, no!” she protested.

He thought her a pampered girl. It was due to her being her father’s heiress and living with grown-up half-brothers and half-sisters—the pet of them all. He must have been mad to marry her.

“Alas, my love, I am on a mission for the Queen. I must go back and prepare myself for the ordeal of the Coronation.”

“Why cannot I go, Robert?”

“It is impossible.”

“But other lords have their wives at Court.”

“Only if they have posts in the Queen’s household.”

“Could I not be a lady-in-waiting?”

“That will come, Amy. But give me time. The Queen has scarce been on the throne a month, and even if she does favor me now as you have heard, I cannot ask too much of her.”

“Would it be asking too much of her to give your wife a place at Court?”

He could smile ironically at that. “I am sure it would, Amy.”

“But, Robert, something will have to be done. I cannot stay here for months and months while you are away from me.”

“I will come to see you, Amy, whenever it is possible. You may depend on that. My duties as Master of the Queen’s Horse keep me occupied. I think I may earn the Queen’s displeasure for absenting myself so long.”

“I am afraid of the Queen, Robert.”

“You are wise to be so. She would be angry if she knew you were detaining me here.”

“And mayhap send you to the Tower! Oh, Robert, shall I ever be able to come to Court?”

He soothed her with gentle words and caresses and plans for the future. Yet how glad he was when he could ride away from Norfolk to London and the Queen!

The day before her Coronation Elizabeth rode through the City that she might receive the loving greetings of her people.

She had gone by water from Westminster Palace to the Tower several days before that Saturday fixed for the ceremonial parade; and she left the Tower on the Saturday in her chariot—a beautiful and regal figure in her crimson velvet. She was not quite twenty-six years of age, yet she looked younger than she had when she had made the journey along the Thames for the Tower on that mournful Palm Sunday four years before.

There were, for her delight, pageants and ceremonies similar to those which had been prepared for her sister Mary, yet how different was the feeling of the crowd! London had welcomed Mary, but Mary was coldly formal. Not so Elizabeth. She was certainly a dazzling sight in velvet and jewels, but she belonged to the people as Mary never could. All during that day she was anxious to show them that she thought of them as they thought of her, that her one wish was to please them as they wished to honor her.

“God save Your Grace!” they cried.

And she replied: “May God save you all!”

Even the poor brought flowers to her. Those about her would have held them back, but Elizabeth would not allow this to be done. She must smile on all; she must speak to them, however humble they were; and the flowers of her poorer subjects were those which she insisted on keeping in her chariot.

She knew that she had the people with her. She, though so young, was wise; and her greatest delight was in the outward signs of her people’s love.

She smiled as she passed the Spread Eagle in Gracechurch Street, for across that street was an arch on which was depicted a pageant concerning the Queen’s ancestors: Her grandparents, Elizabeth of York and Henry the Seventh; her father, Henry the Eighth; and there was a picture of a beautiful and spritely lady to whom no reference had been made for many years: the Queen’s mother, Anne Boleyn. Nothing could have pleased Elizabeth more.

Then there were pageants in Cornhill and the Chepe; and Elizabeth had some apt remarks to make concerning each of them. She would have the citizens know that she was no mere spectator; she was one of them. Her smiles were for all—for the aldermen and the members of the City’s guilds, for the governors and scholars of Christ’s Hospital, one of whom made a speech to which she listened with grave attention.

Most significant of all was her encounter with the two old men who sat at the Little Conduit in Cheapside, one with his scythe and his hourglass, representing Time. Time was her friend; she had always said so. And the other represented Truth; he gave her a Bible in English; and all those about her noticed with what fervency she took this holy book and kissed it.

She listened to the singing of the song which told her of her subjects’ wishes:

“… our hope is sure

That into error’s place thou wilt the truth restore …”

And as she listened she held the Bible against her breast and raised her eyes; and when the people cheered and called blessings on her, she cried: “Be ye assured I will stand your good Queen!”

And so she went to Whitehall; and the next day to the Abbey for the crowning. The dream had come true. Hers was the anointing; in her hands were placed the orb and the scepter; and the voices echoed about her: “Yea, yea, yea. God save Queen Elizabeth!”

There was one duty which, Elizabeth was assured by her councillors, she must not evade. The country would not be completely happy until there was a royal nursery at the palace and the son of Elizabeth was born.

“Marry!” was the urgent advice. “And the sooner the better.”

In spite of a coquettishly expressed love of the virgin state, Elizabeth was by no means unwilling to consider suitors; and as there was no better partie in the world than the Queen of England, there were many to compete for her hand.

In the meantime she was making her future policy clearer.

She had discreetly declared to the Protestant countries her desire to return England to the Reformed Faith; and at the same time, as she had no desire to offend France and Spain, she let it be known that she intended to allow her subjects freedom of thought in religious matters.

The Pope was enraged. He declared that he was unable to understand what right a woman, who had been born out of wedlock, had to the throne; and furthermore, in his opinion, Mary Queen of Scots was the rightful heir. He did not understand how this new doctrine of liberty of conscience could be successful. He feared its consequences.

The Queen, secure in her own country, could snap her fingers at the Pope; she felt that was what most of her subjects wished her to do. She recalled her ambassador from Rome, but he, threatened with excommunication if he obeyed her, stayed where he was. The Queen was indifferent. England was with her; so what did she care for the rest of the world? The Catholic peers had kissed her cheek and sworn to give her their allegiance. She had the common people firmly behind her, for the brief return to Rome under Mary, which had brought with it misery and persecution, seemed to them an evil thing.

She continued magnanimous toward her old enemies; and they, finding they had nothing to fear from her, as she had guessed they would be, were ready to serve her.

She had laughed at their terrors. “ We are of the nature of a lion,” she said. “We cannot descend to the destruction of mice.”

The country had emerged from the reign of Mary in a poor condition; but hopes were high under the new young Queen. Now all looked confidently to her to marry; it was believed by all her statesmen that, although she had shown some wisdom, being a woman, she needed a firm masculine hand to help her rule.

That made Elizabeth smile. She intended to show them that a lioness was as fitted as a lion to defend her own. But that would come. In such matters she must never abandon her caution.

Her subtlety soon began to surprise those about her; and none realized this more fully than the Spanish ambassador, the Count of Feria. The hopes of Feria rested on the Catholic peers who, he was certain, had gone over to Elizabeth’s side only for expediency’s sake. He advised his master that these men could easily be won to the service of Spain, providing the bribes which were offered them were attractive enough. Philip saw reason in this, and was prepared to spend a great deal of Spanish money on his Catholic friends in England.

The Count considered the most likely “pensioner” to be Lord William Howard, a Catholic, whom the Queen had made her Chamberlain; and he quickly discovered that Howard was amenable to bribes. But before the first payment was made Howard appeared reluctant to accept the money. Feria was disconsolate; he had hoped for much from the Chamberlain. Then to the Count’s consternation, a few days after Howard had refused to accept the bribe, he came to Feria and told him: “I could not accept your magnificent offer until I knew the Queen’s pleasure.” Feria was astounded; he had naturally discussed the matter of payment to Howard with the utmost delicacy, but it had never occurred to him that the man had not clearly understood for what purposes the money was to be paid. Then came the most astonishing revelation. “I have now the Queen’s consent to accept the money and shall be glad if you will send me the first payment.”

Philip and Feria were exasperated beyond endurance. They had learned yet another lesson regarding the sharp wits of the Queen.

Nor did Elizabeth allow the matter to rest there. She blithely told Feria that she was delighted to hear of his generosity. She added coyly: “I hope his Most Catholic Majesty will not be offended if I employ some of the servants he has here among my courtiers.”

He wrote to his master that he would go no further in this matter of bribes. He had hoped to lure Cecil, Bacon, Robert Dudley, and Parry to work for Spain. Cecil, however, was possessed of a large fortune and would not be interested in money; Bacon was his close friend and a brother-in-law of Cecil’s, for they had each married a daughter of Sir Anthony Cooke—two very learned women and tiresome bluestockings; there was not much hope in that direction. Thomas Parry, who had long been her cofferer and whom she had now knighted, might be amenable. His real name was Vaughan, but because his father’s name was Harry and he came from Wales he had been called, after the fashion there, Thomas ap Harry, which had become Parry. This man was a gossip, but so attached to the Queen was he that Feria would not hasten to approach him with offers of money. As for Lord Robert Dudley—that handsome young man about the Queen’s own age—Elizabeth appeared to dote on him, and indeed her conduct was giving rise to rumors. In the opinion of the Spanish ambassador it was not easy to know who could be trusted to work for Spain.

The Queen suddenly put an end to such trains of thought by declaring that there must be an end to all “pensions” from Spain.

She was now ready to consider her suitors, a project which gave her much pleasure.

The first and most important was her brother-in-law, Philip, the King of Spain himself.

How she enjoyed herself, alternately gay and serious, tormenting the solemn Feria, refusing to see him, then having him sit beside her and making much of him. She did not think, she declared, that such a marriage would be successful; she was reminded again and again of all her father had suffered when he went through a form of marriage with his brother’s widow.

Feria assured her that the Pope would give his dispensation. She pointed out that the Pope had shown himself to be no friend of hers. The Pope, Feria said coldly, could be persuaded by his master; and if the marriage took place Elizabeth would have no need to fear Papal enmity.

That was true, she admitted; but as she was in no fear of the Pope whatsoever, she had little to gain in that direction.

There were other suitors. There were Eric of Sweden and Archduke Charles, son of Emperor Ferdinand. It gave her great pleasure to consider each and discuss them in turn, to blow hot and cold, to raise objections and then pretend to be favorably inclined. There were many conferences and entertainments to honor the ambassadors of her suitors; but none of the courtships progressed.

She told the ambassadors that she could not forget the unpopularity of her sister’s marriage. The English, she believed, would wish to see their Queen married to an English husband.

Such statements set wild hopes soaring in the minds of certain noblemen. There was the Earl of Arundel, who had offered his hand to Elizabeth before she was Queen. Elizabeth pretended to consider him—not only because she was delighted with any man who declared his wish to marry her, but mainly because she wished for the support of all men of influence at this stage of her reign.

Another was Sir William Pickering; he was forty-three, but handsome, and it was said that he had lived merrily. The Queen showed special favor to such as Pickering, and as, it was remembered, from the days of his youth he had been very successful with women, a match between himself and the Queen, although unlikely, was not impossible.

There were many quarrels between Pickering and Arundel; and the Court amused itself by laying bets on their chances.

Cecil regarded all this frivolity without a great deal of tolerance. He was against the matches with Spain, Austria, and Sweden, favoring alliance with the Earl of Arran who had been chosen for Elizabeth in her childhood. Such an alliance, Cecil declared, would unite England and Scotland and much trouble between those two countries might thereby be avoided.

Elizabeth listened to her ministers, went on discussing matrimony, studied the pictures of her suitors—and looked with longing eyes at her Master of Horse.

Cecil would remonstrate with her. He was not a man to mince his words, and often aroused her anger; but she was clever enough to appreciate him, and was always prepared to give him her ready smile after a difference between them; and what was even more important, she invariably took his advice.

She gave as much attention to matters of feminine vanity as to state affairs, yet the latter did not suffer for that.

While she was considering an answer to Philip of Spain, her silk woman, Mistress Montague, brought her a New Year’s present—a pair of knit silk stockings; and these stockings seemed to delight her far more than a brilliant marriage with His Most Catholic Majesty could have done.

She would lift her skirts to show them to her women. Mistress Montague proudly declared that, seeing Her Majesty looked so well in the stockings, she would without delay set about making more.

“Indeed, I like them!” cried the Queen. “There shall be no more cloth stockings for me. I shall wear only silk.”

Thus, when Cecil came to talk of state affairs, was she occupied with her silk woman. And while she amused herself with her suitors, her fine clothes, and her great position, she kept one man beside her. Her delight in him did not diminish; in fact, it grew so great that it became apparent to all.

The Queen, so quick in other matters, was slow to realize this. Cecil, that blunt and fearless man, brought it home to her on the occasion of the misalliance of the Duchess of Suffolk with an equerry in her service.

The Queen laughed aloud when she heard the story. “So she has married her horsekeeper, that proud Madam!”

Cecil answered: “Yes, Madam; it is true that she has married her horsekeeper, but she might retort that Your Majesty wishes you could do the same!”

The Queen stared at her minister.

Now she knew. She had betrayed her passion for Robert.

There was little opportunity for seeing him alone, and while this did not disturb her greatly—for it seemed enough to her that she often had him in her presence and could give him soft looks and receive passionate and daring ones from him—he was by no means satisfied. He would show his dissatisfaction by being coldly deferential, by being attentive to others; he would absent himself from her apartments now and then; and while he continued to perform his duties with care, she could not reprove him for this. She loved him for his independence—she could not tolerate meekness in men—yet in his case it distressed her.

She told Kat when they were alone together that he must be brought to her with as little ceremony as possible.

“You would have me bring him here alone … to your apartment!”

“Why not? Why not?”

“Dearest Majesty, it could not be kept secret.”

“You mean you could not keep it a secret.”

“Nay! I would rather die than divulge it.”

“If it is divulged, I shall blame you, Kat.”

“Sweetest Majesty, have a care. He is a bold man.”

“I know it,” said Elizabeth smiling. “But do not forget that if I am a Queen, I am also a woman who knows how to take care of herself.”

“He’s no ordinary man.”

“Am I an ordinary woman?”

“Nay! That is why I fear. You both tower above all others.”

“Go and bring him to me, Kat.”

“Dearest, is it wise … ?”

“Go, I say, and do not meddle, woman.”

So Kat brought him to her and left them together. Kat was right when she had said he was bold. The Queen held out her hand for him to kiss, but he would have none of that. He would have her know that he only tolerated ceremony for the sake of others. He would not kiss her hand but her mouth.

“Robert,” she protested breathlessly, “you forget …”

“I have remembered too long.”

“I did not send for you to do this.”

But her assumed reluctance was unavailing. He was too experienced, altogether too fascinating. He was, in fact, irresistible, and he knew it.

He lifted her in his arms and strode with her to the chair of state—that chair in which she alone should sit. There he sat, still holding her. Have done with queenship, he implied. You are a woman now. There has been too much teasing. It is finished.

She was excited. This was lèse-majesté; yet that was how she would have it, for she loved his boldness. She herself was weak with love. She wondered how she could stand out against him, as she must. This was a battle between them; never must she forget that. He wished to seduce the Queen that he might be the master; she wished to keep him desiring to seduce, that she might remain the mistress. It was a battle she knew well how to fight; she had fought it with Seymour and had come through victorious, and she had been but a girl then. But she knew that this battle would be the fiercest she had ever fought.

She laughed as she lay in his arms. “Have you forgotten, sir, that it is the Queen you hold? Have you no respect for the crown?”

“I have nothing … nothing but my love for Elizabeth. I care not if she be Queen or drab. She is mine, and I’ll wait no longer.”

“How dare you!” she cried; and in her voice was the trill of excitement, since his words pleased her more than any profession of loyalty could have done.

“How dare you torment me so?” was his answer.

“I?”

But there were kisses now—given and returned—and words were impossible.

At length he said: “I wonder I did not do this before them all.”

“Arundel would have run his sword through you. I should not have wished that to happen.”

“Arundel! Pickering! You demean yourself!”

“Yes, I demean myself … because you only are worthy to mate with me. At least that is what you think.”

“And you?”

“How could I think that, when you have a wife, and could have none but dishonorable intentions regarding me?”

“There is one thing I must know,” he said earnestly.

“You must know? You are very bold, Lord Robert.”

“And intend to be bolder.”

She shrieked with assumed dismay.

His lips were on her throat, and he said between kisses: “Would you marry me … if I were free to marry you?”

“Would I marry you?” she gasped. “You … you … the son of a traitor! You … a Dudley! Do you think the Queen could marry with such!”

“Yes, I do. Am I a fool? Am I blind? Elizabeth … nay, I’ll not call you Your Majesty. To me you are Elizabeth, the only woman in the world who will do for me … who maketh all others of no account so that they tire me and make me run from them to dream, alas, but to dream—of her who torments me and denies with words the love that shines from her eyes. You would marry me, would you not … would you not?”

She answered hesitatingly: “I … I do not know.”

“Is it because you do not know, that you will give no answers to these suitors of yours?”

“It might be.”

“Because you are in love with a man who cannot marry you since he has a wife already? I will have the truth. I demand the truth.”

She looked into his brilliant eyes and said: “I shall never forgive you for this. I have never been so treated …”

“You have never been loved as I love you.”

“Am I so unattractive that you think no one has the least regard for me?”

“No one has ever loved you as I love you. You would marry me, would you not, if I were free?”

Looking into his face, marveling at his beauty, she told the truth: “I believe I should be greatly tempted to do so.”

She saw his triumph, and that sobered her a little; but she was still under the spell of his enchantment. She put her arms about his neck and stroked the soft curling hair, as she had longed to do so many times.

He said: “Mayhap one day we shall marry. Oh, happy day! And while we wait …”

She raised her eyebrows daring him to go on. She did not yet know how daring he could be.

“We could be lovers,” he said, “as surely we were meant to be.”

Now she sensed danger, and the Queen immediately took command. Her voice was suddenly colder. “You are a fool, Lord Robert.”

He was startled. He had become the subject once more.

She went on quickly: “If there were any hope of our marrying …”

He interrupted: “There is hope.”

Her sudden happiness could not be hidden; it shone from her eyes and she was the woman again.

“How so?”

“My wife is a sick woman. She cannot live long.”

“You … speak truth, Robert?”

“She suffers from a growth in the breast. It will prove fatal.”

“Robert … how long?”

“A year perhaps. You will wait, my love, my dearest Queen? A year … and you and I … together for the rest of our lives.”

“Why did you not tell me this before?” she demanded sharply.

“I dared not hope.”

“You … dared not! You would dare anything.”

He kissed her. “Only since I knew how you loved me.”

She would not allow the embrace to continue. He was too insistent, too clever, too practiced. He knew exactly how to play upon her feelings. The Queen must command the woman not to act like any village drab—or perhaps any normal woman in the hands of Lord Robert.

“It is true?” she asked.

“I swear she will not live long.”

“The people …”

“The people would be delighted if you married an Englishman.”

“Yes … but one of noble family.”

“You forget. My father was Lord Protector of England when you were called a bastard.”

“He went to Tower Hill as a traitor. I was born a Princess, and a Princess I remained.”

“Let us not bother with such matters. They are unimportant, for you have said you would marry me if I were free.”

“I said I believed I might.”

“My darling, I am no foreign ambassador pleading for his master. I am flesh and blood … warm and loving … here … your lover.”

“Not that … yet.”

“But soon to be!”

She freed herself and walked up and down the room. She said after a pause: “It is not often that we may meet thus, and you waste time, my lord. If, as you say, there may come a time when I might marry you, there should be no scandal concerning us beforehand. The people would not like that. Continue to be my Master of Horse, my loyal subject, until such a time as I may find it possible—and in my heart—to elevate you to a higher rank. But leave me, Robert. Leave me now. If you stay longer it will be known. The gossips will be busy with us.”

She gave him her hand and he took it, but his lips did not stay on her fingers. He clasped her in his arms again.

“Robin,” she said, “my sweet Robin, how I have longed for this!”

But Kat was already at the door with the news that William Cecil was on his way to see the Queen.

But how could she keep this overwhelming love a secret? It obsessed her. She could think of little else. If he were absent, nothing pleased her; but the Master of the Horse only had to put in an appearance and she was all gaiety.

She wanted to show her love and her power at the same time. She gave him the Dairy House at Kew, and that was a lovely old mansion; nor was that all. He must, she decided, be rich beyond all her courtiers; she liked to see him clad in fine clothes and jewels, for who else could show them off as he did? There were some monastery lands which must go to my Lord Dudley; and as many merchants in England had grown rich through the export of wool, he should have a license to export that commodity, and lands and riches with which to develop the industry. As if this was not enough, she must invest him with the Order of the Garter. There was no gainsaying her. Let any man come to her and say that my Lord Dudley was unworthy of such honors and she would make him feel the full force of her displeasure.

She was fiercely in love. Thus had her father, King Henry, been when he had become enamored of her mother. The main topic of conversation throughout the Court was the Queen’s passion for Robert Dudley.

She arranged special pageants at which much time was devoted to jousting, for none could joust like Robert Dudley. She would sit watching him, her eyes soft, then kindling with applause, for he was always the victor, his skill being so much greater than that of any other man.

She talked of him at every opportunity; when she was with her women she would bring the conversation back to him again and again. She liked to have him compared with other men that she might point out how greatly he excelled them all. She even encouraged her courtiers to criticize him so that she might have opportunities of enlarging upon his perfections.

She was in love and she did not seem to care who knew it. On one occasion when he was competing in a shooting match, she disguised herself as a serving girl and entered the enclosure that she might be near him. But when he had beaten his opponent she could not resist calling out: “Look, my lord, who has passed the pikes for your sake.”

The Earl of Sussex remarked that it might be a goodly conclusion to the matter of her marriage, if Lord Robert Dudley were free for her, for he was sure that a woman so full of desire for a man as the Queen was for Dudley, could not fail to get children.

Cecil had the courage to warn her. It might, he told her in his blunt way, be impossible for her to marry elsewhere, if rumors concerning herself and Dudley persisted.

But she did not heed him. Headstrong as her father, she would show her favor where she wished; and if that favor fell upon “the most virtuous and perfect man” she had ever known, it was only right and natural that this should be so.

“Favor!” cried Cecil. “But what favor, Madam? It is said that you would marry this man if it were possible for you to do so.”

“I like a man, Master Cecil,” she said. “And the man I marry will be no sit-in-the-cinders kind of man. He will be a man of many perfections, worthy to marry the Queen.”

Cecil sighed and had to content himself with urging caution.

But the rumors were spreading beyond the Court. “The Queen plays legerdemain with my lord Robert Dudley,” it was said in the hamlets and villages. And from that it was an easy step to: “Have you heard then? The Queen is with child by Lord Robert Dudley. What next, eh? What next?”

Great news was expected. There was tension throughout the country. Even those who did not believe the Queen was pregnant, believed that Robert was her lover.

Cecil inwardly raged while the Court whispered. But for the existence of poor unwanted Amy Dudley, there was no doubt who the Queen’s husband would be.

Kat, as usual, had her ear to the ground. She was worried, for these scandals rivaled those which had been circulated when Seymour had been reputed to be Elizabeth’s lover.

She came to the Queen and said: “Dearest Majesty, I beg of you to take care. Terrible things are said of you.”

“Who dares?” cried Elizabeth.

“The whole country. Mayhap the whole world!”

“They shall suffer for their lewdness.”

“Dearest Majesty, I fear it will be you who suffers. You must consider these rumors. You must remember you are a Queen, and a Queen of England.”

“What rumors are these?”

“They say that you live in dishonor with Lord Dudley … That you are his mistress.”

The Queen laughed shortly. “Yet all those about me know such rumors to be false. Look at me! Look at the people who are always about me. My councillors, my statesmen, my ladies of the bedchamber, my gentlemen of this and that …” She spoke almost regretfully: “What chance have I, Katharine Ashley, to lead a dishonorable life!” Her eyes flashed. “But if ever I had the wish to do so—but God I know will preserve me from this—I know of no one who could forbid me!”

Kat was dismissed; and she went out shaking her head, wondering what would happen next.

Robert did not enjoy the same popularity with his own sex as he did with the other. Envious eyes followed the Queen’s favorite. Robert knew that there was nothing that could produce hatred so surely as success, and that therefore he must have inspired much enmity. His great desire was to marry the Queen but he wished to do this with the full support of her ministers. He and Elizabeth had been foolish to expose their feelings to the public gaze. Robert sought—with the Queen’s consent—to remedy this.

The Archduke Charles—the son of the Emperor—was now seeking to marry the Queen. Robert called his sister Mary to him. Mary Sidney had, through her brother’s influence, a high post in the Queen’s bedchamber. Elizabeth was fond of Mary. Was she not the sister of Robert, and was it not pleasant to talk to one who loved him in such a sisterly way? Mary Sidney very quickly had the confidence of the Queen.

“Mary,” he said, “there is much gossip concerning the Queen’s marriage.”

“Robert … is there any news of you … and the Queen?”

“What news could there be while Amy lives?”

Mary’s eyes expressed her anxiety. “But, Robert, Amy will continue to live. She is so young.”

“Yes, yes,” he said impatiently, “so it would seem. But … because I have married her and because of the rumors regarding myself and the Queen, many are speaking against me. I would remedy this, and I want you to help me.”

“You have done so much for us all. There is nothing we would not do for you, Robert.”

“My dear Mary, I trust I shall always be your very good brother. Now the Queen is with me in this: Archduke Charles is eager to marry her; and although she is by no means eager to marry him …”

“Being eager to marry only one man,” interrupted Mary with an affectionate smile.

He nodded. “She and I would have it believed that she is contemplating this match, which, as you know, would greatly please the Catholic peers. I want you to seek an opportunity of telling the Spanish ambassador that the Queen has hinted to me that if she could see and approve of the Archduke Charles, she might marry him.”

“Robert, this means …”

“It means one thing. I wish to put an end to these rumors which do none of us any good. I wish the Court and the country to believe that the Queen has discussed her marriage plans with me, and that she and I, knowing a marriage between us is impossible, have agreed that it would be wise of her to take the Archduke.”

“I will do this, Robert; and, of course, I understand your meaning.”

After Mary’s words to the Spanish ambassador there was great excitement among the Catholic peers; Norfolk, in particular, was delighted. Who, they asked each other, could know the Queen’s mind better than the Dudleys? The Queen was too wise a woman, and Robert Dudley too wise a man, to believe for a moment that they could marry each other. Robert would have to divorce his wife to do so, and the people would not be pleased at such procedure.

Amy meanwhile had heard the rumors regarding her husband and the Queen. It was impossible for them to be kept from her, for Robert had become the most talked-of man in the country.

At first she had been proud of him; she had heard of his exploits at Court; how at Greenwich he had held the lists against all comers; how the Queen favored him and had presented him with lands and honors.

Then she began to understand the cause of the Queen’s favor.

“So,” she said to Pinto, “it is because she is in love with him! Oh, Pinto, it is a frightening thought: The Queen is in love with my husband!”

Pinto said grimly: “You and she are not the only two ready to make fools of themselves for his lordship’s sake.”

“You should not hate him so, Pinto. You should try to understand him.”

“Have I any reason to love him when he makes you so unhappy?”

“You seem a little strange when I speak of him. Do you think he will try to divorce me?”

“It would not surprise me.”

“I will never let him go. How can I? How could I want to live if I were no longer Robert’s wife?”

“It would be a happier state for you if you were not his wife, Mistress.”

“But I would rather have his brief visits than no visits at all.”

“Little mistress, you are a fool.”

“No, Pinto. I am in love with him. That is all. But perhaps love makes fools of us and you are right when you say that I am one. I only know that I must continue to be one, because I love him now that he no longer cares for me, just as I did in the first days of our marriage.”

“Then you show little sense.”

“Does anyone in love show sense?”

“Perhaps they do not.”

“I wish he would come here that I might ask him what these rumors really mean. I would ask him whether, if I were no longer here, he would marry the Queen.”

Pinto was angry. She hated to talk of Robert, Amy knew. Yet to whom else could she speak of him as she wished to speak?

“We are very rich now, Pinto,” said Amy. “I should have a grand house. I shall ask Robert why I do not. During the season we could entertain the nobility. Is that not what is due to the wife of a man in Robert’s position?”

“No man was ever before in his position,” said Pinto.

“I will not stay here in my father’s house,” said Amy. “I shall travel a little. Why should I not? Let us leave the day after tomorrow for Denchworth. The Hydes will be glad to have me.”

“Everybody would be glad to have Lord Robert’s wife,” said Pinto.

“They would indeed. You see, Pinto, why I could never give him up. I would never consent to a divorce. Would you, Pinto? Would you?”

“How can I say? How could I know?”

“Ah! You would wish for a divorce. You would be only too glad. But then, you do not love him. You do not know how different he is from all others.”

“Let us go to the Hydes, Mistress. The change will be good for you.”

Pinto sat stitching her mistress’s new gown in preparation for the visit to Denchworth.

She was thinking of the messenger who had come to the house three days ago. He had brought money and gifts from Robert for Amy. Pinto was a little afraid of Robert’s gifts. She had grown alert.

This messenger was unlike the previous messengers. He was gentle in manner, softly smiling, eager to ingratiate himself with the household, and in particular with Amy’s personal maid. He must have recently joined Robert’s service for Pinto had never seen him before.

She chanced then to look out of the window and she saw this very messenger sauntering in the gardens. On impulse she put aside her work and went downstairs. She did not go to him; she let him see her and come to her, as she guessed he would, for she believed from his manner that he had hopes of learning something from her.

They walked together in the rose garden.

“I should imagine that you have a good position here with Lady Dudley, Mistress Pinto,” he said.

“Very good indeed.”

“It is clear that her ladyship is fond of you.”

“I have been long with her.”

“I doubt not that you know all her secrets. She is a beautiful young lady. Many must admire her.”

Was he trying to make her disclose some story of indiscretion? wondered Pinto. Was he hoping to discover something which would enable Lord Robert to put her from him?

She said: “I know not who admires my lady. I know only that she has no admiration for any man but her lord.”

“That is clear, Mistress Pinto. What sort of health has my lady? She looks blooming, but one can never tell.”

“Health! Lady Dudley’s health is of the best.”

“Come, come, you may trust me. I have heard that she suffers from some growth which is gradually sapping her strength.”

“It is not true!” cried Pinto.

“Are you sure it is not true … ?”

“I swear it. I am in her confidence. She could not keep such a thing from me.”

The man nodded; and Pinto had a feeling that his mission was completed. He made an excuse to go back to the house. She accompanied him.

She was trembling when she returned to her needlework. A terrible thought had come to her. Rumors regarding her mistress’s health had been set afloat. And who would be likely to start such rumors? To what could they lead? Did it mean that one day Pinto would find her mistress dead of some strange malady?

Was this poisonous gossip the forerunner of more deadly poison?

William Cecil and Nicholas Bacon were with the Queen. Cecil was explaining that he could not send for the Archduke Charles unless the Queen would give him a direct Yes or No. She must not forget the position of the Archduke; to ask him to show himself on approval would be an insult. If the Queen would give her definite answer and tell them that she was prepared to marry the Archduke, nothing would delight them more than to send for this suitor.

“Yes or no, Your Majesty. You understand this is imperative.”

“Oh, come,” said Elizabeth, “I could not give a direct answer until I see him. I might hate him, and how could I marry a man whom I hated!”

“But Your Majesty has already expressed your deep interest in this match.”

Elizabeth looked haughtily at her chief ministers. “How can you know my feelings?” she demanded. “Have I told you I am ready to marry Charles?”

“Your Majesty, Lord Dudley and his sister Lady Mary Sidney have made it quite clear what is in Your Majesty’s mind.”

“How should they know what is in my mind?”

“Madam,” said Cecil, “it is believed that they, more than any in your realm, have your confidence.”

“They have misunderstood me this time,” said Elizabeth.

“Then are we to understand that Your Majesty has come to no decision with regard to the Archduke?”

“Your understanding is not at fault. I am no more inclined to Charles than to any other.”

Cecil and Bacon were annoyed by this, but Norfolk was furious.

The Duke angrily sought out Robert and demanded to know what right he had to spread rumors which were without truth.

“I! Spread rumors?” cried Robert.

“You and your sister! Did you not imply that the Queen had chosen her husband?”

“I am sorry you are disappointed,” said Dudley.

“Have a care, my lord!” cried Norfolk. “You go too far. Much is spoken against you.”

Robert’s hand went to his sword hilt. “You place yourself in danger, my lord Duke,” he said. “The Queen would not consider you a good Englishman and a loyal subject since you wish her to marry outside the realm. You would bring foreigners among us. Her Majesty would not like that … she would not like that at all.”

Norfolk stared at Robert. How would he represent this encounter to the Queen? Was it not a fact that she would be inclined to believe anything that Robert told her, since she was as infatuated with him as ever? Norfolk retired, seeing his mistake.

The victory was Robert’s. But he had not added to the number of his friends.

The news came to England that Philip of Spain was to marry Elisabeth de Valois, daughter of Henri Deux. A blow to England this, for it meant the union of her two enemies against her. Queen Elizabeth seemed unperturbed. She refused to look at the marriage politically. She merely pouted on hearing of the withdrawal of so powerful a suitor.

“What inconstancy!” she cried to Philip’s ambassador. “Could he not wait a few short months? Who knows, I might have changed my mind. And there he will be … married to a French Princess when he might have married the Queen of England.”

But no one took her seriously. They knew that she was waiting and hoping for something, and that Robert Dudley was concerned in those hopes.

The French King had died unexpectedly during a joust, when a splinter from a lance had entered his eye. His young son, François, was now King of France, and Mary Stuart the Queen. She styled herself Queen of France and England—an insult Elizabeth determined to hold against her.

But she was not seriously annoyed, it seemed to those about her. She would smile to herself and continue in great good humor while Lord Robert was beside her.

The Spanish ambassador, furious at the trick which had been played on him by the Dudleys (for he had written to his master and told him that it was certain the Queen would take Archduke Charles), now wrote bluntly to Philip telling him of the rumors which were circulating throughout England, and which, he assured Philip, seemed to have a firm foundation.

“The Queen,” he wrote, “gives much time and attention to Robert Dudley still; and it is the opinion of many who are close to her that she hesitates to marry only to gain time. She is waiting for Lord Robert to dispose of his wife, which many think he will attempt to do by means of poison. He has circulated rumors that she is slowly dying of a fatal disease, and this has proved to be untrue. He wishes, of course, that when she dies, there will be little surprise, and it will be believed that her death was the natural outcome of her malady. The Queen’s plan is to engage us with words until the wicked deed is done. Then it is thought she will marry Lord Robert.”

And all through the spring and summer the rumors multiplied.

Amy so enjoyed her stay with the Hydes at Denchworth that she prolonged her visit; and the Hydes were pleased to have her company. Amy quickly formed a friendship with Mistress Odingsells, Mr. Hyde’s widowed sister, and this lady became her constant companion.

They all petted Amy. It was the delight of the cook to make her favorite sweetmeats. Nothing could please Amy more for she had a fondness for all sweet things; while she was at Denchworth, bowls of sweetmeats were kept in her room; and the kitchen maids took pleasure in making new flavors for her delight. They could not do enough for Amy. Although she was the wife of the most talked-of man in the country, they were sorry for her. The Hydes urged her to stay on; and Amy, feeling that the atmosphere of the house was rather as her own had been in the days when her mother was alive and her half-brothers and half-sisters had made a pet of her, could not resist the invitation.

Pinto was glad that they stayed at Denchworth. She too liked the atmosphere of the house. Here, reflected Pinto, she felt safe.

Often she thought of Lord Robert and wondered of what he talked with the Queen. Did they discuss marriage? What a King he would make! There was that about him which must conquer all—even one as proudly royal as the Queen of England, even one as determined to hate him as humble Pinto.

As long as she lived she would remember the moment when he had come upon her as she bent over the press. What had made him kiss her? What had made him notice her for the first time? Had she betrayed her feelings for him? He would have forgotten the kisses, for he would have given so many. Often she thought how different life would have been if Lord Robert had never come to Norfolk, if little Amy had married a pleasant gentleman like Mr. Hyde.

“Oh God, let us stay at Denchworth where it is quiet and safe!” she prayed.

At Denchworth all wondered what was happening in the gay world of London and the Queen’s Court. It was being said now that the Queen would marry the Archduke Charles and that he was coming to London for the betrothal.

“Even so,” said Amy to Pinto, “we shall see little of Robert. I doubt not that he will continue to be occupied at Court.”

“It may be that the Queen’s husband will not wish to have him there.”

Amy agreed that might be so. “Then perhaps he will be banished to me as he was before. Do you remember, Pinto, how happy I was during those two years when he could not go to Court? That was before this Queen was Queen and when there were so many rumors that she would lose her head. How did she feel, I wonder, to be so near death as she must have been?” Amy’s eyes had grown wild.

Then she has heard the rumors! thought Pinto. Oh, my poor little mistress. God preserve her!

“Do you know, Pinto,” went on Amy, “I believe that to be near death would make a woman feel that she must live every minute of her life to the full because life is, after all, so precious. Bring me my new purple velvet gown. I will put it on. I think it needs a little alteration. I should like to know that it was ready …”

Ready? thought Pinto. Ready to wear for the husband who so rarely comes?

But at least, here at Denchworth, they must be safe.

They did not stay at Denchworth. It was while Amy was trying on the velvet dress that Anthony Forster and his wife arrived.

Amy, hearing their arrival and hoping it might be Robert, went down clad in her velvet. It hurt Pinto, who followed her, to see her disappointment.

Anthony Forster, whom Lord Robert had made his treasurer, had come for a purpose, Pinto surmised.

“My lord thinks,” he told Amy, “that you should not stay so long the guest of Mr. and Mistress Hyde. He would like you to remove to your own house; and as you so like this district he says you may go to Cumnor Place which, as you know, is not such a great distance from here. There you can live in state and entertain Lord Robert and his friends when they come to you.”

Amy, always eager for excitement, accepted the plan with enthusiasm. The idea of Robert’s bringing his friends for her to entertain had always attracted her. There would be something to do besides lie on her bed, eating sweetmeats, chattering to Pinto, and trying on her dresses.

Cumnor Place! Why, of course. It was a lovely old house, and Robert had leased it a few years ago from the Owens. It had been a monastery at one time, and had been given to the present Mr. Owen’s father by King Henry the Eighth for good services as the King’s physician. It was only a few miles from Denchworth, and about three or four from Abingdon.

She would prepare to go there at once; and when there she could entertain the Hydes as they had entertained her; then she would prepare for grander company—all the ladies and gentlemen whom Robert would bring from the Court.

Pinto seemed disturbed when she told her of the plans.

“Cumnor Place. You remember it, Pinto?”

Pinto did remember it. A lonely house, surrounded by trees, a tall house with views of the downs from the top windows. Pinto did not let her mistress see the shiver which ran through her.

“I remember it,” said Pinto.

“You do not seem to be eager to leave here. Have you become attached to Denchworth?”

“Mayhap I have. Who will go with us to Cumnor Place?”

“Mr. Anthony Forster and his wife will be there for a while to prepare for my husband. And I think that Mistress Owen will be there. She is much attached to the place, and Robert allowed her to stay. We shall not be lonely, you see.”

“And my lord … suggested this move?”

Why did suspicions leap to her mind? wondered Pinto. Cumnor Place was so lonely. His servants would be there—men and women who would not hesitate to do anything the future King of England demanded of them.

“Yes. It is my belief that he wishes to entertain his friends there. Oh, Pinto, the lonely days will be over. We shall have many guests to fill the house. I must have some new dresses.”

Pinto said on impulse: “Mistress Odingsells is very fond of you. Why not take her with us? She would be a pleasant companion for you, and you know how you hate to be alone. When you have not me to talk to, you will have her. And it will be doing her a good turn. Take her as your companion.”

“Why, I like that idea, Pinto. Yes. I shall take her as a companion.”

Pinto was glad. She could not get out of her mind the thought that it would be good for Amy to have as many friends as possible in lonely Cumnor Place.

The Queen was worried. She was wondering how much longer she could stave off a decision. It seemed that unless she acted quickly she would be forced into a position which she was determined not to accept.

There was war in Scotland. The Scottish Protestants were in revolt against the French, who, under the Dowager Queen of Scotland, Mary of Guise—mother of Mary Queen of Scots, who was now Queen of France—were taking too prominent a part in Scottish affairs. They determined to rid themselves of their Gallic masters, and in this Elizabeth must help them, for if the French gained possession of Scotland she would have a very powerful enemy on her borders.

Her ministers advised war, and she saw the wisdom of this. Philip of Spain was watching and hesitating according to his custom, not caring to throw in his lot with the French, yet, stern Catholic as he was, finding it impossible to aid the Protestants.

But when he saw how well the war was going for the Protestants, he ordered his ambassador to deliver an ultimatum. Unless the peace was made and kept, he declared, he must send aid to the Catholics. The Queen was in a panic. Philip must be held off at all costs, so she placated him by the only means at her disposal: she promised she would marry the man he wished her to—Archduke Charles.

Philip was well pleased, for if Charles should be King of England he foresaw the return of England to the Catholic fold; but he was beginning to know Elizabeth, and he would not be put off as he had previously been.

Plans, he commanded, should be made at once for the coming of the Archduke to England.

Robert and Elizabeth met secretly and alone.

“I am afraid of what may happen,” she told him. “With Charles here my hand may be forced.”

Robert exulted. Never before had he realized how completely she needed him. She was appealing to him now. Something drastic must be done.

The question they were asking each other was: What?

Robert knew that he had many deadly enemies. The Queen was popular enough to withstand the scandal their relationship had set in motion; but the people did not like to think that their Queen was conducting a dishonorable association with a married man. They therefore blamed Robert.

In the streets harsh things were said of the Dudleys, and in particular of Lord Robert. Who is this upstart? it was asked. It is true that he is the son of a Duke, the brother of a King, and the grandson of a Knight; but his great-grandfather was a farmer, and he was the only one who died in his bed an honest man. Let Lord Robert get back to his farm, and sowing his crops reap the family honesty.

Would they accept such a man as their King? And what would their reaction be if he divorced his wife in order to marry the Queen?

Elizabeth looked at him, seeing in him all the manly vigor of his twenty-eight years. She yearned for him; but even as she yearned, she cried out angrily: “Why did it have to be you … you with your blood tainted with treason, with your father, grandfather, and brother all dying by the axe … you, a married man with a wife between us!”

Robert gripped her arms, and her heart beat faster as she felt the strength and power of him.

“My beloved,” he said, “something shall be done … and soon.” She looked at him expectantly and he went on: “If I were free to marry and we married, our troubles would be over. All will be reconciled to our marriage when our son is born.”

She nodded, still keeping her fearful eyes upon his face.

“Nothing must stand between us,” he said. “Nothing!”

“But, Robert …”

“I know … I know what you think. We cannot thrust this aside just because it seems impossible. It is the most important thing in the world that we should be together … important for us and England. None but I shall give you your sons.”

She said faintly: “That is how I would have it, my sweet Robin. But how can it come about?”

“It shall come about … and speedily.”

She saw the set of his mouth and she understood.

The days of Amy Dudley were numbered.

She told him to leave her, for she felt she could bear no more. After he had gone she sank onto a stool and sat there in silence. What was one death in a great destiny? she asked herself. How many times had she come near to losing her own life? She was a Queen, and any who stood between her and the sons she would bear, must surely die.

William Cecil returned from Edinburgh where he had signed a treaty with the French. He was triumphant. England had come satisfactorily out of the affair. Now he would receive the gratitude of the Queen, which he hoped would take a practical form, for his family was growing and he was a family man who looked to the future.

Cecil was the cleverest man in England; he had come successfully through the difficult years. Although he had served Protector Somerset he had not fallen with him, but had transferred his allegiance to Northumberland; and when Northumberland had ceased to be a power in the land he had worked for Mary, never forgetting that he must remain the friend of Elizabeth. And because he was both calm and bold and never hesitated to set forth what he believed would be the best policy for the country, he continued successful; and Elizabeth—more than any who had gone before her—appreciated his qualities.

So now he came to Court to receive the Queen’s most grateful thanks.

Elizabeth’s twenty-seventh birthday was on the seventh of September and the Court had gone to Windsor Castle that the important event might be celebrated there.

So to Windsor came Cecil, for it was necessary to discuss with Elizabeth the arrangements for the coming of the Archduke Charles.

Cecil was pleased. The war was satisfactorily ended and Elizabeth was committed to the marriage. He believed that, once his mistress had a husband to guide her, the management of affairs would be easier, for when the Queen began to bear children she would be ready to leave affairs of state to her husband. Charles would steady the friendship with Spain and, in view of the French claims through Mary Queen of Scots, there was safety in Spain’s friendship.

He was therefore feeling very satisfied when he was shown into the royal apartments.

He knelt before the Queen, but even as he did so he was aware that all was not well. She looked older and there were signs of strain on her features. She did not congratulate him on his clever statesmanship in the arrangement of the treaty, which was the least she might have done. He told her that the Spanish ambassador had accompanied him to Windsor and was awaiting audience that the arrangements for her marriage might be discussed.

“There is too much haste concerning these arrangements,” she said sharply.

“Too much haste, Your Majesty! You will forgive me if I say that the Archduke has shown the utmost patience in this matter.”

She snapped: “I am in no mood to see the ambassador.”

“Your Majesty, if you fail to make these arrangements you will incur the wrath of the King of Spain.”

“What care I for that man! His feelings seem of little importance to me.”

“Madam, they are of the utmost importance to England.”

She stamped her foot. “Have done! Have done! Are we vassals of His Most Catholic Majesty as we were in my sister’s time?”

Cecil knew then that the state of affairs had not changed in the least. She had the look of a woman deep in desperate love; and that meant she still hankered after Lord Robert and was determined to have him or none other.

Cecil could see ahead quite clearly. This was what came of having a woman on the throne. Her personal feelings, her personal emotions were to put the country into jeopardy. If she were a King she would take a mistress and none think the worse. But she was a Queen, and the scandals concerning herself and Dudley were rampant.

Would that man were dead! thought Cecil.

Then he made a decision. His success was due to his consistent frankness. If he had served Protestant and Catholic irrespective of religion, he had never failed to serve his country. As he saw it, England’s relationship with foreign powers was all-important, and at the moment the most powerful ally England could have was Spain, and Philip must not be offended.

“Madam,” he said coldly, “I see you are so far gone in love for Lord Robert Dudley that you are neglecting your business, which is to rule this realm; and if you continue in your neglect you will ruin this country.”

Elizabeth gasped. Her impulse was to order Cecil to the Tower; but she quickly saw the folly of that. What would she do without Cecil? She honored him; and such was her nature that, even in that moment of anger, she knew that he was speaking the truth and that he was the one man—even more than Robert, whom she loved passionately—to whom she wished to entrust her affairs.

“You overreach yourself, Master Cecil,” she said, with a coldness that matched his. “None could prevent my marrying where I wished.”

“You are wrong, Madam,” said Cecil wryly. “Lord Robert’s wife prevents you.”

“Nothing else?” she said, and her words were a question. “Nothing but that?”

“Madam,” said Cecil, “if Lord Robert were in a position to be Your Majesty’s husband, your ministers would doubtless have no objection since your heart is set on this, and the country needs an heir.”

A slow smile spread across her face. “Your insolence is overlooked on this occasion. I think that soon we shall reach a settlement of these matters. Lady Dudley will not live long.”

“Madam,” said Cecil aghast, “I see trouble ahead.”

“Go now,” she said, “and rest. You have had a long journey.”

He bowed and retired.

His thoughts were in a turmoil. Did he understand aright? Were they planning to rid themselves of Lady Dudley? But what a scandal that would be! Did they not see that? Even Queens—young and popular Queens—cannot with impunity connive at murder.

As he was leaving the Queen’s apartment, he met Alvaro de Quadra, the Spanish ambassador who had replaced Feria. De Quadra, spy for his master, ever on the alert, noticed the strained look on the face of the Secretary of State.

Falling into step beside Cecil, de Quadra asked: “And when may I have audience of Her Majesty? There is much to discuss concerning the marriage.”

Cecil was silent for a few moments, then he burst out: “Do not ask these questions of me. I am thinking of leaving my office. I see great troubles ahead. Your Excellency, if you are a friend of England’s, advise Her Majesty not to neglect her duty as she does. Would to God Lord Robert Dudley had lost his head with his brother. That would have been a good thing for England.”

“Lord Dudley?” said de Quadra. “So the Queen still frets for him then?”

“Frets for him? She thinks of nothing else. I know this, and it fills me with dread: They are scheming to murder his wife, that marriage between them will be possible. They say she is suffering from a malady which will shortly rob her of life, but I have discovered this to be untrue. Poor woman! Doubtless she is taking good care not to be poisoned, since she has lived so long.”

The Spanish ambassador could scarcely believe that he had heard correctly. Was this calm Cecil, the wily statesman, the man whose custom it was to consider his lightest remark before uttering it! And to speak thus before the Spanish ambassador, well known to be a spy for his own country!

Cecil recovered his poise; he grasped de Quadra’s arm and said earnestly: “I beg of Your Excellency to say nothing of this. This is the Queen’s secret matter.”

The ambassador gave his word, but immediately retired to his own apartments that he might write dispatches which on this occasion, he was sure, would prove of the utmost interest to his royal master.

A September haze hung in the air. Pinto was in one of the attics looking out over the countryside. How quiet it seemed! Yesterday she had watched the Fair people riding by on their way to Abingdon for the Fair. The servants were talking of it now. She was glad of that. When they were discussing the Fair they ceased to talk of Lord Robert and the Queen.

Poor Amy! She was desperately afraid—afraid of every footfall, afraid even of her fear, for she did not speak of it even to Pinto. She had reason to be afraid. She stood between Lord Robert and his marriage with the Queen.

A woman of Brentford, so they had heard, had been arrested for saying that the Queen was to have Lord Robert’s child. Had she spoken the truth?

Pinto was afraid in this house.

The grounds were beautiful and extensive, but the house itself was shut in by many trees; and it was only by climbing to the top that it was possible to see the open country.

Some of the rooms were large, but those which had been cells, were very small. There were two staircases. One of these, which led from the kitchen quarters, was a narrow spiral one; that which swept up and round the old hall, which had been the monks’ common room, was wide with elaborately carved banisters. This staircase was not enclosed, so that it was possible to look down into the “well” from any point.

It was a house full of shadows, full of echoes from the past. Pinto did not like the thoughts which had come to her while she had been living in this house.

Only last week a very disturbing incident had occurred.

Amy had fallen ill and Pinto, fearing that already she was being poisoned, had been frantic with anxiety.

Her fears had been so great that she had persuaded Amy to call a physician—not one of Lord Robert’s but a friend of the Hydes.

And the man had refused to come.

Lord Robert had his own physicians, he had said. It was their place to look after the health of Lord Robert’s wife.

There was something so alarming about such behavior that even Amy could not shut her eyes to it. The man would not come because he suspected Amy was being poisoned and wished to have no part in it. If Amy died suddenly and there was an autopsy, and her death were proved to be due to poison, it would be necessary for persons in high places to find a scapegoat; this man was clearly intimating that he had no intention of being that scapegoat. If Amy wanted a physician she must have one of her husband’s.

“Nay,” said Amy, “I do not think I need a doctor after all. I was just feeling a little melancholy. It is nothing more.”

But how frightening was this life!

There was one thing of which Pinto felt sure: Amy’s life was threatened. It was clear from the doctor’s attitude that the whole country was expecting her to die by poison, for that would mean that her death could be said to be due to a fatal disease. Rumors had already gone forth that she suffered from a cancer of the breast.

Since everyone was talking of poison, it was obvious that Lord Robert would be aware of this; therefore it seemed almost certain that Amy would not die by poison. Die she must if she were to be removed from Robert’s path toward ambition, but her death would have to seem accidental or the whole country would cry: Murder. What could Pinto do? Where could she turn? She could only keep near her mistress, hoping to guard her. But they were two defenseless women against a relentless enemy.

She went downstairs, and in the hall she found Forster talking with Mistress Owen who, living apart from her husband, had asked leave to stay on in the house. Amy, being fond of company, had been glad to have her.

Forster said pleasantly as Pinto came down the stairs: “I doubt not you’ll be asking your mistress’s leave to go to the Fair.”

“That may be,” said Pinto.

“A messenger has just come from Windsor. He brings letters for my lady. He tells us that tomorrow or the next day Master Thomas Blount will be riding here from Windsor with special gifts and letters from my lord for her ladyship.”

“My lady will be pleased to hear from Lord Robert,” said Pinto.

She passed on.

Master Thomas Blount! He was a kinsman of Lord Robert’s, a man whose fortune was bound up in that of his master; a man who would be ready to follow Lord Robert’s instructions … even if they were to murder his wife.

He sends letters, he sends gifts, thought Pinto; and he longs to put her out of the way.

It seemed to Pinto that danger was moving nearer.

It was night. Amy lay still, the curtains pulled about her bed. She had awakened with a start, aware that someone was in her room.

She sat up, pressing her hands to her heart. What fear was this which possessed her, which made her start at every sound? There was terror all about her.

She knelt on her bed and opened the curtains. Pinto was standing there, a lighted candle in her hands.

“Pinto!” cried Amy in great relief.

“Oh, Mistress … are you awake then?”

“You frightened me so.”

“Mistress, I had to come to talk to you.”

“At this hour?”

“It would not wait … or so it seemed. I have to say it now. Perhaps I could not say it by day. Mistress, before your marriage, I used to come to your bed and sleep with you at night when you had dreams. Do you remember?”

“Yes, Pinto. I have indeed bad dreams now. Come you in beside me.”

Pinto blew out the candle and climbed into the bed.

“You’re trembling, Pinto.”

“You tremble, Mistress.”

“What is it, Pinto? What is it?”

“We are afraid, Mistress. Both of us are afraid of something, and we are afraid to speak of it by daylight. That is why I come to you at night. Mistress, we must speak of this thing.”

“Yes, Pinto, we must.”

“They seek to put you away, Mistress.”

“It’s true, Pinto. It’s true.” Amy’s teeth were chattering.

“You see,” said Pinto, “he is an ambitious man, and all he desires would be ready for him to take but for you. I am frightened. Never eat anything unless I prepare it for you.”

“They are trying to poison me, Pinto?”

“I do not think they will.”

“Why not?”

“Too many have talked of poison.”

“Pinto, what can I do? What can I do?”

Pinto’s eyes were wet. It was as though Amy were a child again, coming to Pinto for help. No! It was quite different. This was no childish problem. This was a matter of death.

“I have thought of something, Mistress. We will go away from here.”

“Where could we go?”

“I have thought that we could go to your brother John. He loves you dearly. We could live in his house secretly … as serving maids mayhap. I have not thought beyond that. He is wise. He will advise us. First we must get to his house.”

“Should we be allowed to go like that, Pinto?”

“Nay, we should not. We should have to go in secret. Oh, Mistress, I have thought and thought until my thoughts are in a whirl. Master Blount will be here late tomorrow or the next day. Mistress, I greatly fear that man.”

“You think … he comes … to kill me … ?”

Pinto did not answer that. “I would wish that we were away before he comes.”

“How, Pinto?”

“Listen carefully, dearest Mistress. Tomorrow is Sunday. Send all the servants to the Fair. Send even Mistress Odingsells, for she is talkative and inquisitive, and I fear that if she were here she might blunder about us and make it impossible for us to leave. Keep Mistress Owen for company; and the Forsters will be here, I doubt not. But let all the rest of the household go to the Fair. I shall go with them and, as soon as I can without attracting attention, I shall return to the house. Rest until I come, that you may be ready for a tedious journey. I will come quietly into the house and together we will slip out to the stables. This will be your last night in this house.”

Amy clung to Pinto. “Oh, how glad that makes me. I am afraid of this house. We will do that, Pinto. We will go to my brother.”

“You must insist that all go to the Fair. We must run no risk of being seen as we leave. Stay in your room until I return. But be all ready to leave …”

“But, Pinto, how shall we go … two women … alone from here to Norfolk?”

“I do not know. But we must. We can go quickly to an inn, rest there and perhaps engage more servants to accompany us. None should know who you are. I have not thought of that very clearly. There is one thing which occupies my thoughts. We must get away from this house before Master Blount enters it.”

“Yes, Pinto, yes. But I have thought of something. It is Sunday tomorrow. Only the lowest and most vulgar go to the Fair on Sundays.”

“It is a pity. But they must go. You must insist on that. How do we know who among them spies on us?”

“They shall go. And you will come back soon, that we may start on our journey.”

“As soon as I can safely do so.”

“Oh, Pinto … it is such a wild … wild plan. There are dangers to women on the roads.”

“There is no danger so great as that which lurks in this house.”

“I know … Pinto. I feel it … all around me.”

“Let us try to sleep now, Mistress. We shall need all our strength for tomorrow.”

“Yes, Pinto.”

They lay still and occasionally they spoke to each other. It was not until the dawn was in the sky that they could sleep.

Sunday morning came.

Amy felt happier now, because the sun was shining brightly and this was to be the last day she would spend in this frightening house.

She called the servants to her and told them that, as it was a fine day, they all had her permission to go to the Fair in Abingdon.

They had hoped to go on Monday and were not too pleased; but they dared not refuse to do as the mistress bid.

Amy turned to Mistress Odingsells, who had acted as her companion ever since they came to Cumnor Place, and asked her to go too.

“I … go on a Sunday!” cried Mistress Odingsells, who was very conscious of her dependent state. She was indignant. She … a lady … to be sent to the Fair with the vulgar on a Sunday!

“It is a pleasant day,” murmured Amy.

But Mistress Odingsells was greatly put out. She would certainly not go to the Fair on a Sunday.

“You shall go at your own pleasure,” said Amy quickly, “but all my servants shall go … every one of them.”

“And who will keep you company?” asked Mistress Forster.

“You and your husband will be here. And Mistress Odingsells it seems, with Mistress Owen. There will be plenty to keep me company if I wish for company. But I am a little tired, and I shall go to my room to rest for a few hours, I think.”

Mistress Odingsells said she would retire to her room for, since her company was not desired, she would be sure not to impose it upon anyone. Amy did not try to soothe her. Mistress Owen thought Amy seemed a little distraught—nay, more, quite hysterical, so determined was she that all should go to the Fair. It was strange because usually she liked to have plenty of people about her.

Amy went to the top of the house to watch them set out. Pinto was with them. She turned and waved her hand to her mistress, who she knew would be watching.

Pray God, thought Amy, she comes back quickly.

She stayed at the window for some minutes looking out over the country. Could it really be true that Robert was planning to kill her? She could not believe it. She thought of him in the days of their courtship, so eager, so passionate, and so determined to marry her whether his father granted permission or not. She remembered the first days of their marriage. Of course there were rumors about a man like Robert. He was so dazzlingly handsome, the most successful man at Court. Of course the Queen was fond of him.

But what was the use? She knew Robert was planning to murder her.

Now the quietness of the house was frightening her again. She had an impulse to run out of it, to run after the servants, to go to the Fair with them. That was foolish. Pinto was a wise woman. Her plan seemed wild, and wild it certainly was; but it was the only way of escape from a dangerous situation.

“Go to your room and try to sleep,” Pinto had said.

She would do that.

Just as she was turning from the window she saw a man on horseback coming toward the house. For a moment she was terrified, thinking that Thomas Blount had arrived. But it was only Sir Richard Verney, who had ridden over to do some official business with Forster.

She saw Forster go out and greet him, and the two men finally walked away from the house. Forster was taking Verney to some trees which she believed were to be cut down.

She turned away from the window and went to her room, and lying on her bed pulled the curtains. She must try to sleep. She must remember that she was safe until Thomas Blount arrived.

There was a dish of sweetmeats lying on the bed where she had left them last night. Her maid must have replenished the dish before she went to the Fair. She saw that some of her favorites were there; she could never resist them, and almost mechanically she began to eat them. They were delicious.

Before she had finished she began to feel very tired.

She fell asleep in the act of reaching for another.

It was less than an hour later when the door of Amy’s room was quietly opened. Two men came in. Very quietly one of them pulled aside the bed-curtains.

“What if she wakes?” asked one.

“Impossible,” said the other, looking at the dish.

He was smiling. It had been too good an opportunity to miss. All the servants—almost the entire household—at the Fair! This was the time when an accident must happen.

“Come,” said the other. “Let us get it done with.”

One placed his hands beneath her shoulders; the other took her feet; and, carrying Amy between them, they went quietly out of the room.

It was not easy to slip away. Pinto was anxiously awaiting the favorable moment.

And when it came there was the long walk back to Cumnor Place.

Could her plan succeed? What would happen if they were seen? Would she be murdered with her mistress? Then he would have two deaths on his hands.

She must not blame him. He was different from other men. He must not be judged by their standards. It would seem to him only right that Fortune should deny him nothing. Pinto understood.

But she would not give him Amy’s life. She would fight for that even at the cost of her own, even if by doing so she made him a double murderer.

They would creep out of the house. They would go to the stables. They would ride fast … and before nightfall they must be well away from Cumnor Place and where none knew them. They must find the right inn. They must succeed

She would not visualize failure. She saw them arriving at the home of John Appleyard. John would do anything for his sister, she knew. He loved Amy dearly.

She had reached Cumnor Place.

Now she must creep quietly in and by way of the main staircase hurry along to Amy’s room. If she met the Forsters or Mistress Odingsells or Mistress Owen she must say that she had lost sight of the other servants and had deemed it wise to return to the house. But she must not meet them; she must meet no one.

How quiet the house seemed. But she must be thankful for the quietness.

She came into the great hall which was flooded with sunlight. As she was about to hurry forward she stopped short, staring at the figure lying at the foot of the staircase.

Her limbs were numbed. She could not move. She could only stand there staring before her while horror, such as she had never before known in the whole of her life, possessed her.

She knew that she was too late.

Amy Dudley was dead. She had been found on the floor of the hall at Cumnor Place, her neck broken, after what was obviously a fall down the staircase. The Court and the countryside could talk of nothing else; there was one explanation and that was murder. It was not necessary to look far for the murderer.

The Queen sent for Robert, declaring that she must see him alone. Elizabeth was afraid—not only on his behalf but on her own. She knew that this was one of the most dangerous situations she had ever faced. She knew that Royalty must be in command, bidding Love take second place.

But when she saw him, she knew that whatever came between them she would always love him. Her affection for him would remain even when she looked back with horror at the hysterical woman it had made of her. She loved him no less because he had committed murder. Had he not murdered for her sake? She herself had faced death too many times to hold the lives of others dearly.

But she had to save him and herself.

“What now?” she said, as soon as they were alone. “What now, Robert?”

“She fell from the stairs,” he said. “It was an accident.”

She laughed mirthlessly. “An accident! At such a time!”

“That is what it seems. What it must seem.”

“Do you not see how foolish we have been, you and I? We have shown feelings to the world which we should have been wise to hide. Such an accident to the wife of an obscure courtier would have aroused no comment. But to your wife … at such a time … when the whole world knows of the love between us … Robert, no one will believe in this accident.”

“You are the Queen,” he said.

“Yes, yes. But there is one thing I have known all my life: A Queen or King must be loved and respected by the people. They murmur against me. They say lewd things. They say I am to bear your child. Now they will say that this had to be, that our child might be born in wedlock … the legitimate heir to the throne. And they will whisper about me. They will call me a lewd woman.”

He said: “Your father married six wives. Two of them lost their heads; two he put from him when he tired of them; one all but lost her head, and only his death, some say, saved her. You talk of this scandal. How can it compare with your father’s senary adventure in matrimony!”

“A Queen is not a King. A King may love where he will, but a Queen who is to bear the heir to the throne must be above reproach.”

He came to her and put his arms about her; and she was moved temporarily by his masculine charm.

“All will be well,” he said. “ We shall come through this storm. And remember, there is nothing now to keep us apart.”

She was silent. She was not the woman whom he had known. She was older, wiser; the old habit of learning her lessons had not been lost. Thus she had been when she had stood before Lady Tyrwhit at the time they had beheaded Thomas Seymour. She had deceived them all then.

Never again must she allow herself to be overwhelmed by her love for a man. She must for evermore be Queen first, a woman second.

She must not forget that she was in danger now, and she must learn her lesson quickly. When she had extricated herself from the result of her folly, never must she err in that respect again.

“Robert,” she said, releasing herself from his arms, “there is only one thing to be done. I must put you under arrest until this matter is cleared up. It is the only way. Think of the future, my love, and do as I say. Go to Kew under arrest by orders of the Queen.”

He hesitated, but he was wise enough to see that the Queen was in control of the woman.

“You are right,” he said. “You must not be involved in this. Our mistake has been to show the world that we love each other. Once this has blown over …”

She nodded, and throwing herself into his arms, kissed him fiercely.

“Go now, my dearest. All will be well. No harm shall come to you. But we have to learn from the mistakes we have made. There must be no more. Her death has to be an accident. You and I must not even have wished it to happen. Because you are her husband you will, of necessity, be suspected; and the Queen’s orders are that you stay in your house at Kew … under arrest. Go now, and soon all will be well.”

“All will be well,” he said, returning her kisses with a fierceness which outstripped her own. “Soon you and I shall be husband and wife.”

“If all goes well,” said the Queen soberly.

This was the greatest scandal that had shocked and entertained the world since Elizabeth’s father had played out his tragic farce with six wives.

If justice were to be done, said the world, the Queen should take her place with her lover on trial for murder.

Robert was frantic. Confined to his house at Kew he was in desperate and urgent correspondence with his faithful servant and kinsman Thomas Blount, commanding him to sound opinion at Court and in the countryside, particularly in the region of Cumnor Place. Thomas Blount was to question the servants, bully them, browbeat them into admitting that Amy’s death had been an accident. He, Dudley, was still an influential man; he would get in touch with the foreman of the jury and see that the “right” verdict was declared. When he was King of England he would not forget those who had helped him to his place, any more than he would forget those who had tried to impede him.

Cecil had recovered his balance. He was the calm minister once more. He saw the country threatened with a crisis which could do much harm. Confidence in the Queen must be restored. He must remain her chief minister, for if he retired he might find himself in the Tower; besides, how could he bear to give up his ambition?

He was beside the Queen now, supporting her when she needed his support. She had the utmost confidence in him; and he was too good a minister to fail her.

He remembered that, in his agitation during a weak moment, he had spoken incautiously to the Spanish ambassador, and that his words would doubtless have been reported to Philip of Spain. What had he said? That he saw troubles ahead, that his mistress and her lover were planning the murder of Amy Dudley! That was a terrible mistake to have made, because he had said those words only a few hours before Amy had been found in Cumnor Place lying at the foot of a staircase with her neck broken. Could such a coincidence be accepted? It must be. The only way to keep the people loyal to the Queen was to have a verdict of accidental death brought in. The Queen might commit political murders, but she must not be implicated in the murder of a woman whose husband she wished to marry. That was something the country would not accept. Royal murder was permissible. But the charge of personal murder—murder for passion, love, lust, whatever the people called it—must be laughed to scorn.

This Queen’s whole future was at stake. There was Jane Grey’s sister, Catharine, who would find ready supporters. There was Mary Queen of Scots, who was now the Queen of France. Clearly if Elizabeth was to stay on the throne she must not be implicated in murder. Therefore there must have been no murder; for if murder had been committed, the Queen would seem as guilty as her lover.

Cecil accordingly decided that his course of action must be to laugh at the suggestion of murder.

This attitude would give the lie to the words the Spanish ambassador had already written to his master. Even Philip might doubt the veracity of de Quadra, if Cecil treated the scandal with scorn and contempt.

Cecil went ostentatiously to Kew to visit his dear friend Lord Robert Dudley, and to assure him of his belief in his innocence.

The Queen was pleased with Cecil; she knew that she and he could always rely upon each other.

But the country was demanding justice. Several preachers in various parts were asking that a full inquiry be made into the death of Lady Dudley, and grievous suspicions disposed of.

And all knew that in this there was not only a threat to Lord Robert, but to the Queen herself.

Thomas Blount worked assiduously in the service of his master.

He went to Cumnor Place with the express purpose of proving Amy’s death an accident.

He questioned Mistress Odingsells, Mistress Owen, and the Forsters. Mr. Forster told him that Amy seemed a little absent-minded on that fatal Sunday morning. It would not surprise him if she had fallen down as she was descending the stairs. But the Forsters were suspect, as any servants of Lord Robert’s at Cumnor Place must be; for if the task of murder had to be entrusted to one of them, it would be to a man in Forster’s position.

A jury, deciding that it dared not offend the man who might be King, and at the same time the Queen herself, would not bring in a verdict of murder; but this was not only a matter for a court jury; in this case the whole of England was the self-appointed judge and jury; and the whole of England could neither be bribed nor threatened.

It seemed strange and mysterious that Amy, who had always insisted on having people about her, should have tried to send the entire household to the Fair on that Sunday morning.

Blount was puzzled. He must carefully question every person in the household in an endeavor to understand Amy’s strange action.

At length he came to Amy’s personal maid, the woman who, he had heard, was devoted to her mistress.

Pinto had lived in a daze since the tragedy.

It was all so clear to her. Someone—she suspected Forster—had been awaiting the opportunity; and it was her actions, her schemes which had given him what he sought.

She knew of the murmuring throughout the country. She knew that people were saying: “Robert Dudley is a murderer. His grandfather and his father died on the block. Let him die on the block, for he deserves death even as they did.”

What if he were to die for this? She could not call to a halt that procession of tableaux which haunted her. She thought of a hundred pictures from those two and a half years when he and she had lived under the same roof. Often she had watched him when he did not know he was watched. He had not noticed her except for one moment, and then it had been her apparent indifference to him that had so briefly attracted him.

Yet she knew that during the whole of her life she would never forget him.

One of the maids came to her and said that Master Blount wished to question her as he was questioning the whole household.

The maid’s face was alive with eagerness. She whispered: “He is trying to prove it was an accident. Lord Robert has sent him to do so. But … how can they prove that … and what will happen now to my lord?”

What would happen to him now?

Pinto was excited suddenly because she felt that there was within her a power to decide what should happen to him.

She could tell the truth; she could tell of the plan she had made with Amy. That would not help Lord Robert. But there was one explanation which was not incredible. No one would believe Amy’s death was due to an accident; but might they not believe in that one alternative to murder: suicide?

That would not endear Lord Robert to the people; he would still have his detractors; but at the same time a man who neglected his wife to serve his sovereign was not on that account a criminal.

She stood before Thomas Blount, who studied her intently. A personable creature of her kind, he thought; and one whose grief showed her to have had a real affection for the dead woman.

“Mistress Pinto, you loved your mistress dearly.”

“Yes, sir.”

“What do you think of her death? Was it an accident or was it caused through villainy?”

Pinto hesitated briefly. It seemed as though he were there beside her. He was made for distinction. She was making excuses for him. He had been tempted and, weakly, he had been unable to resist. It seemed to her that he was pleading for her help, he who had never asked her for anything. What woman had ever been able to resist him? And it was in her power to give him more than any had ever given him before.

Her mind was made up. She couched her answer in carefully chosen words.

“Sir, it was an accident. I am sure it was an accident. She would not have done such a thing herself. Never!”

Eagerly he seized on her words. This was the first suggestion of suicide. Here was a way out that he had not foreseen.

“Tell me,” he said, gently, “why should you think she might have done it herself, Mistress Pinto?”

“Oh, but I do not!” Pinto stared at him wildly, like a woman who has betrayed that which she had planned to hide. “She was a good woman. She prayed to God to save her from the consequences of desperation. She would have committed no such sin as taking her own life.”

“Had she some idea in her mind of destroying herself?”

“Nay, nay! It is true that there were times when she was so wretched that …”

“She was sick was she not?”

“She had troubles.”

“Troubles of the body as well as of the mind?”

“Lord Robert came so rarely to see her.”

They watched each other—he and Pinto, both alert.

He was thinking: Suicide! The next best thing to accident. He was framing his story. “Amy Dudley was suffering from a disease of the breast which she knew was killing her. It was painful, and she decided she would endure it no more. She sent her servants to the Fair so that, on that Sunday morning, she might end her life. A strange way in which to kill oneself? A fall from a staircase might not have meant death? Oh, but Amy’s state was one of hysteria. She would hardly have been aware of what she was doing. She longed for the company of her husband, but owing to his duties at Court he could not visit her as often as he would have wished. So, poor hysterical woman, she had sent her servants to the Fair that she might have a quiet house in which to kill herself.”

A sad story, but one which could cast no reflection on Lord Robert and the Queen.

Pinto was conscious of the triumph of a woman who loves and serves the loved one—even though she does so in secret.

On a warm Sunday morning, two weeks after she had died, Amy’s body was carried to the Church of St. Mary the Virgin in Oxford. The funeral was a grand one. It was as though Robert was determined to make up for his neglect of her during her lifetime by lavish display now that she was dead. There was a procession of several hundred people; and Amy’s halfbrother, John Appleyard, as he walked with other relations of hers and the students from the University, was filled with bitter thoughts. He had loved his young sister dearly, and he deeply resented her death; for nothing would convince him that it had not been arranged by her husband.

While the bell tolled, while the funeral sermon was being preached, John Appleyard’s heart was filled with hatred toward Robert Dudley.

There were others at the funeral who felt as John did.

There were many who would have wished to see Robert Dudley hanged for what he had done to an innocent woman who had had the misfortune to marry him and stand between him and his illicit passion for the Queen.

So Amy was laid to rest.

But although the jury had brought in a verdict of Death by Accident, all over the country people were talking of the mysterious death of Amy Dudley, and asking one another what part her husband and the Queen had played in it.

Robert was hopeful and expectant. Surely the Queen must marry him now that he was free.

As for the Queen, she wanted to marry him. This terrible thing which had happened had not altered her love. She was defiantly proud, exulting in the fact that he had put himself in such jeopardy for love of her. He was a strong man and there was in him all that she looked for. He was ready to marry her and face their critics; he was defiant and unafraid.

But her experiences had made her cautious. She wanted him, but she had no intention of losing her crown.

She could snap her fingers at Cecil, at Bacon, at Norfolk and Philip of Spain; but she must always consider the people of England.

Reports from all quarters were alarming. The French were saying that she could not continue to reign. How could she—a Queen who permitted a subject to kill his wife in order to marry her! The throne was tottering, said the French. They may have been beaten in Scotland, but soon it would be Elizabeth who suffered defeat. A people as proud as the English would never allow a murderess and an adulteress to reign over them.

When she rode out, her subjects were no longer spontaneous in their greetings.

All over the world there was gossip concerning the Queen and her paramour; lewd jokes were bandied about as once they had been with regard to the Princess Elizabeth and Thomas Seymour; stories were invented of the children she had borne her lover; she was spoken of as though she were a harlot instead of the Queen of a great country.

She was perplexed and undecided. There were times when she longed to turn to Robert and say “Let us marry and take the consequences.” At others she was reluctant to take any further risk. Always she seemed to hear the cries of the people when she had ridden through the streets of London at her Coronation: “God save Queen Elizabeth!”

She kept Robert at her side; she shared state secrets with him. The Court looked on. It was said that it could not be long before she made him her husband.

But she wanted time to think, time to grow away from the emotional weeks which had culminated in Amy’s death. Time had always been her friend.

“Why do we wait?” asked Robert. “Cannot you see that while we hesitate we are in the hands of our enemies? Act boldly and end this dangerous suspense.”

She looked at him and fully realized his arrogance; she recognized the Dudley fire, the Dudley temperament which had raised two generations from the lowest state to the highest. This man whom she loved saw himself as King, the master of all those about him, her master. There was one thing he had forgotten; she too had her pride; she too had risen from despondency to exultation, from a prison in the Tower to greatness—in her case a throne. She might take a lover, but she would never accept a master.

Cecil decided that matters must not be allowed to remain as they were. It was imperative that the Queen should marry. Let her marry the man for whom she clearly had an inordinate desire; let there be an heir to the throne. That was the quickest way to make the people settle down and forget. When they were celebrating the birth of a Prince, they would forget how Amy Dudley had died.

The wedding could be secret. The people need not know of it until an heir was on the way.

Such procedure would be irregular, but Amy’s death was very unpleasant. It had to be forgotten. Much which this Queen’s father had done was unpleasant, but that King had kept his hold on the people’s affections.

Robert was delighted with Cecil’s change of opinion. He was triumphant, believing he had won; but he had reckoned without the Queen.

She had come to know her lover well, and those very qualities which she admired so much in him and which had made her love him, helped her now to make the decision that she would not marry him … for a while.

She knew that during those difficult weeks she had learned another lesson … a lesson as important to her as that which she had learned through Thomas Seymour … as important and as painful.

She was Queen of England and she alone would rule. Robert should remain her lover, for all knew that lovers were more devoted, amusing, and interesting than husbands, who could become arrogant—especially if they were arrogant by nature.

She would win back the people’s love as she had after the Seymour scandals. Moreover, if she did not marry Robert, how could it be said that she had urged him to kill his wife?

Her mind was made up. She could not marry Robert now, for to do so would be tantamount to admitting she had schemed with him to murder Amy. Therefore she would stand supreme. She would keep her lover and remain the Queen.