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

EIGHT

As time passed, Robert was constantly with the Queen, but their relationship had become a more sober one. He was still her favorite, but they were like a married couple who have passed through stages of passion to trust and friendship, which was, in its way, more satisfying than the earlier relationship had been.

All eyes were now watching events in Scotland, and the matrimonial adventures of Queen Mary were leading all England to think that, in remaining unmarried, Elizabeth was again showing her sagacity.

After the murder of Rizzio, the Queen’s husband—Darnley—had met a violent death in which many believed Mary to have played a part.

Elizabeth was alert. She thought of Mary in that wild and barbaric land, a dainty woman, brought up at the intellectual but immoral Court of France, a passionate and lustful woman who had a power to attract men which was apart from her crown.

Mary was weak in those characteristics which were the strength of Elizabeth. She would be impetuous where Elizabeth would always employ the greatest caution. Yet Elizabeth knew that there were some in the country—and this applied particularly to those staunch Catholics, the Northern Peers such as the Percys and the Nevilles—who would like to see Mary on the throne of England. Therefore, everything that Mary did was of the utmost importance to England.

But Mary was a fool in some matters, whereas Elizabeth was the wiliest woman in the world.

Elizabeth thought often of all that had happened to Mary. Had she, wondered Elizabeth, planned the murder of Darnley with that ruffian Bothwell? She knew that the barbaric chief—which was how she thought of Bothwell—had had to divorce his wife in order that he might marry Mary. Was it true that he had raped and abducted the Queen of Scots?

Mary was a fool to give great power to a man like Bothwell. Mary forgot that which Elizabeth would never forget—the dignity of queenship.

Cecil came to her with fresh news.

“Madam, the lords of Scotland have risen against Bothwell and the Queen. They accuse them of the murder of Darnley. Bothwell has escaped to Denmark and the Queen of Scots has been brought captive to Edinburgh.”

“A prisoner … in her own capital city!” cried the Queen.

“The people of Edinburgh have abused her as she passed through their streets. They cry out that she should be burned alive. They say she is an adulteress and a murderess, and should not be allowed to live.”

“How dare they!” cried Elizabeth. “And she a Queen!”

Cecil looked at her. His eyes were steady. He was telling her without words that if the people of Edinburgh should take it upon themselves to do what they would call justice to the Queen of Scotland, Elizabeth would be without a powerful rival. Perhaps his thoughts ran on as hers did. If they could have the baby Prince brought to England and put in charge of the Queen’s Parliament, much trouble might be saved.

Mary’s disaster was Elizabeth’s opportunity—as Cecil saw it.

But Elizabeth could not get out of her mind the picture of Mary, a captive, riding through the streets of Edinburgh, while the mob shouted at her. All other emotions were submerged by the horror of that picture, for Mary, like Elizabeth, was a Queen. How could one Queen rejoice in the insults thrown at another? Elizabeth might be jealous of Mary; she might even hate Mary; but she would never approve of insults being thrown at an anointed Queen, for no such evil precedent must be set.

Cecil, watching her, marveled at her yet again. The woman and the Queen! He could never be sure with which of them he had to deal.

When the little coffer of silver and gilt was brought to England, feelings ran high against Mary, for the coffer contained those letters—always known as the Casket Letters—which Bothwell was reputed to have left behind him in his flight. These letters—if they were not forgeries—damned the Queen, labeling her as Bothwell’s accomplice in the murder of Darnley.

Still Elizabeth would defend her. And when Mary escaped from her captors, raised men to fight for her, was defeated and threw herself once more on Elizabeth’s mercy, though there were many to urge the execution of this dangerous woman, still Elizabeth continued to remember that Mary was a Queen. Elizabeth must uphold the status of royalty. Kings and Queens might err, but the common people must see them as the chosen of God, and the peers must never be allowed to judge them. Mary was certainly a foolish woman; there was little doubt that she was a murderess; there was still less that she was an adulteress; but she was a Queen.

“The lords have no warrant nor authority by the law of God or man,” said Elizabeth, “to be superiors, judges, or vindicators over their Prince and Sovereign, howsoever they do gather and conceive matters of disorder against her.”

That was the Queen’s verdict, and she did not forget that Mary and Bothwell stood in relationship to Darnley as once she and Robert had to Amy Robsart.

She would have a dangerous enemy to contend with, but that enemy was merely a woman and a foolish one; she had the Catholics to consider; but these matters were tangible. A subtle canker growing in the minds of the people was an entirely different matter; for that grew unseen and unchecked; it could undermine all thrones, all royalty.

She offered Mary asylum in England, first in the Castle at Carlisle, then, as she felt that to be too near the borders of England and Scotland, in the Castle of Bolton at Wensleydale. Let her stay there while the Queen of England waited on her old friend Time.

Mary was tempestuous, arrogant, and willful. She had expected to be received at Elizabeth’s Court. She had not come as a prisoner, she complained, but as a visiting Queen.

Elizabeth could deal with that matter. Mary, she answered, was being given protection, for her position was a dangerous one. The Queen of England would be remorseful to the end of her days if aught happened to her dear sister while she was in her care. And as for coming to the Court, Mary would readily see that the Queen—as an unmarried woman so closely related to Lord Darnley—could not, in propriety, receive Mary at her Court while she was still under suspicion of Darnley’s murder.

Her dear sister of Scotland must understand that nothing would delight her more than to hear that the truth had been discovered and Mary proclaimed innocent of her husband’s murder.

So Mary had to be content with her captive state; and the Queen waited, ever watchful of her dear sister, yet determined to show the people that Queens were above reproach, no matter what charges were brought against them.

This was necessary, for Amy Robsart had a disturbing habit of rising from the grave now and then. The people must not be allowed to make unhappy comparisons.

It was at this time that the rift with Spain became too wide to be ignored.

To England the Queen was a symbol. She gathered handsome and chivalrous men about her; they must be gallant and adventurous. She wished to be to them a fair ideal, the mistress they all wished to serve because they were in love with her perfections; yet she was the mother, and their welfare was the clearest concern of her life. She was Woman, warm and human, yet because she was an anointed Queen, she was invulnerable and unassailable. She wanted her men to be bold, to perform feats of courage and adventure for her sake; these she rewarded with her smiles and favors. She was a spiritual mistress; they must be faithful to her; they must perpetually seek to please her; their words to her, their thoughts of her, must be the words and thoughts of lovers. They must all be in love with her; to them she must be the perfect woman. But they must never forget that she was mistress of them all. And while to her handsome and gallant courtiers, to her statesmen and soldiers, she was the queenly mistress and beloved woman, they must constantly remember that to her people she was Mother—the all-embracing Mother—and her thoughts and her energies were directed toward the good of her people. She wished England to be a happy home for her people—a prosperous home—and as, to her belief no home could be happy and prosperous unless it were peaceful, she abhorred war.

Often she would say to her ministers when she reproved them for urging her to some action, of which she did not approve, against a foreign power: “My father squandered great wealth in war. I have studied the histories of many countries, and I have never yet seen any good come out of war. There is a great waste of a nation’s substance and its man-power; there is poverty, famine, pain, and heartbreak but never good. I am not a King to seek military glory. That has no charm for me. I am a Queen—not the father but the mother of my people; and I wish to see them content in their home. I know this contentment can be brought about by our prosperous merchants, by good harvests. My people would love me less if I wrung taxes from them to pay for wars, as others have done before me. And I am a mother who wishes to keep her children’s love.”

So did she hate the thought of war that she would grow angry if any spoke of it; and often during a meeting of the Council she would slap a statesman’s face or take off her slipper and throw it at him, because she believed he was urging his fellows toward a war-like policy.

But at the same time she longed to make England great; and England was beginning to be aware of her sea power. John Hawkins had begun the slave trade, which was proving profitable for England; he was taking cargoes of men and women from West Africa to Central America and the West Indies for the local planters. His young cousin, Francis Drake, had given up dreaming dreams on Plymouth Hoe and had joined Hawkins. These two intrepid seamen of the West Country had already come into stormy contact with the Spaniards on the high seas and off the coasts of Mexico and Peru. Martin Frobisher was wondering why the sea and the new lands should be left a prey to Spain and Portugal. Were not the English as bold—if not bolder—than the Spaniards! If English ships lacked the elegance of Spanish galleons, the bravery of English seamen made up for that. Moreover, did they not serve a Queen before whom they wished to show their mettle!

She applauded them, but silently. She was the mistress before whom they might strut, at whose feet they must lay their treasures. But it was to be clearly understood that they must bring no harm to her family. If these adventurers looked upon the Spaniards on the high seas as their natural enemies, if they took on the role of pirates and stole the plunder which the Spaniards had already stolen before them—that was all well and good; but her family must remain safe. She would not go to war on behalf of her pirates. What they did was their own affair. They must finance their own adventures; she would not tax her children to provide the funds. Let them show themselves true men—men who believed in their ventures; she would love them all the better for that.

Thus she secretly encouraged her adventurers while openly she washed her hands of them. Spain looked on in puzzled irritation. What could be done against such a woman? She made her own rules. She was perversely feminine when it suited her to be.

She had always had the common touch, but during these years the affection of the people deepened for her. They accepted her at her own valuation—as someone more than human. Yet she was continually showing them how human she was, continually discarding formality, which she said was made for her, not the Queen for it. She had pet names for those who served her. First, of course, was her beloved Eyes; and now a new young man, Christopher Hatton, had won her favor. Handsome, charming, capable of making flowery speeches, he was also the most excellent dancer she had ever known. She called him her “Lids.” Meanwhile Cecil had become her “Spirit.”

The trouble with Spain had increased with the dismissal of her ambassador, Dr. Mann, from Madrid. Elizabeth bridled. The Queen would not, she said, lightly forget this insult from Spain. She added that Philip had never forgiven her for refusing to marry him, and that was why he had sent that odious de Spes as ambassador to replace his charming predecessor. De Spes did not compliment her nor flatter her, and she disliked him intensely; she was sure he was determined to misrepresent her to his master.

She was in this mood when four Spanish ships on the way to Flanders were chased by French pirates and forced to take refuge in Southampton, Falmouth, and Plymouth.

When Cecil and Robert brought the news to her she smiled complacently.

“And what do these ships contain?” she asked.

“Bullion,” Cecil told her. “It comes from Genoese merchants, and is a loan on the way to Alba in Flanders.”

“And Your Majesty knows well for whom that money is intended,” said Robert.

“I do. It is to pay those soldiers of his who are making it possible for him to stay in that wretched land and torture its people.”

“I fear so, Your Majesty,” said Cecil.

“It makes me sad to think of those poor souls,” she said, “at the mercy of Alba and his Inquisition.”

“Many of those who have escaped have found refuge in this land,” Robert reminded her. “They will bless Your Majesty until they die.”

“Poor men! Poor men! And this bullion is to pay those wretches … those soldiers who serve such tyrants. What think you, my dear Eyes? What think you, Sir Spirit, would His Most Catholic Majesty do if that bullion never reached his tyrant Duke?”

“He would say that of Your Majesty which I would not dare utter,” said Robert.

“I did not ask what he would say, Robert. I asked what he would do.”

Cecil said: “His hands are tied. He could do nothing. His forces are not at his disposal. He has too much territory to guard. If the bullion did not reach Alba it is possible that his soldiers would mutiny.”

She gave her high laugh and her eyes sparkled. “Then, my dear lords, the bullion must not reach Alba. Have not the French pirates attempted to attack the ships in my ports? Let the bullion be brought to London for safekeeping. It is private property, is it not? It is the property of Genoese merchants. I cannot see that it belongs to His Most Catholic Majesty any more than to me. We could use a loan, could we not? And here it is on our very shores.”

Cecil was silent. Robert was gleeful.

“God’s Death!” he cried, using one of her oaths. “Why should we not crush this Catholic domination? Why should Your Majesty not be supreme head of the Protestant world?”

“There speaks the soldier,” she said, giving him a sharp tap on the cheek. “Let us have war that my lord of Leicester may distinguish himself and bring great glory to his name! Nay, Robert, the good things are won in peace. Is that not so, Master Cecil?”

“At this time, Madam, it would be daring enough to confiscate the bullion.”

“What reprisals could be taken by our little saint in his Escorial?”

“I do not think he is in a position to do overmuch. But there is the wool trade to consider and, as Your Majesty is well aware, our best customers are the Low Countries. Alba could seize our merchants’ goods there.”

“Well, we could seize the goods of the Netherlanders in England, which I believe are greater. Think of the riches these Netherlanders have built up in our country. Why, if we seized their goods and property here they would make such an outcry that the Spaniards would be forced to come to a peaceful settlement. Nay, my dear lords, no harm will come of this. We shall have the bullion as our loan; and this will teach these Spaniards to have more respect for Englishmen on the high seas. Hawkins was treated maliciously by those Spanish Dons in Mexico. Shall I allow my subjects to be treated thus?”

“But Hawkins gave as good as he got, Your Majesty,” said Robert.

“As good as he got? Nay, better, which is what I would expect of an Englishman.”

And in such good mood was she that Robert dared show his jealousy of her newest favorite.

“This Hatton man,” he said, when Cecil had left them. “Your Majesty cannot truly be so delighted with his company as it would seem.”

“But I am, Robert. I am. I declare my Lids are as necessary to me as my Eyes … or nearly so.”

“How can you say that?” he demanded passionately.

“Because it is true, dear Eyes.”

“Your Majesty seeks to torment me.”

“And why should I do that?”

“Because I have loved you long and you grow tired of such enduring devotion.”

“God’s Body!” she cried. “Never would I tire of fidelity. It is to my way of thinking the most endearing quality.”

“And Your Majesty doubts mine?”

“I doubt it not, dear Robin. Doubt not mine for you.”

He kissed her hand, wondering whether he might speak to her of marriage, but he was more cautious than he had been in the days before that spell of disfavor. She smiled at the frown between his brows, and she thought: Dear Robin, he grows older. He loses those handsome looks.

There were streaks of white in the once black hair; the skin beneath the eyes was a little pouchy, the fine line of the jaw a little flabby. A tenderness came over her. She would not tell him so, but she loved him no less than she had in the days when she had so often thought of him as a husband. If her thoughts were calmer now, they were no less affectionate.

She was still the coquette; but she had made her wishes clear. She was to be eternally young, even though Lanoy had failed to find his elixir. All handsome men, whatever their ages, must be in love with her. It was part of the homage she demanded as their Queen.

She was ready to tease Robert a little about Hatton, that greedy man, who had been bold enough to ask for part of the Bishop of Ely’s garden. Hatton had received his garden—twenty acres of fertile land between Holborn Hill and Ely Place—although Bishop Cox had protested most bitterly.

“Methinks, Robert,” she said, “you are more than my Eyes. I read your thoughts. I have given a garden to Hatton. But think, my dear friend, what I have given to you. And I doubt not that, ere you and I leave this Earth, I shall give you much more. Yet in return what do I ask? Your affection, your loyalty to the Queen, and your fidelity to Elizabeth.”

“They are yours, my beloved.”

She smiled at him, and although the smile was tender it held a warning. She had heard that two sisters at Court were madly in love with him; and that there was continually strife between them because of this. One was Lady Sheffield and the other was Frances Howard. He must so far have remembered the pain of his exile, which had started with a flirtation with Lettice Knollys, for Elizabeth had not heard that he had given either of these sisters the slightest encouragement.

And, she thought grimly, it would be wiser for him not to do so. She could not tolerate any of her favorites’ marrying, but that her first favorite should have a love affair at Court was more than she could bear. It seemed to her that her life and Robert’s life were closely bound; she had always been attracted to him—first in the nursery, then in the Tower and later at Court; she knew now that she would always love him beyond all others whatever befell. She felt a similar affection for Kat Ashley. She might quarrel with her and with Robert, but she would love them until she died. And whereas Kat was the friend, Robert was the lover.

He made one more attempt, and she enjoyed his making it because it was the symbol of his jealousy.

“What is it you admire so much in the popinjay?”

“Come, Robert, do not show your jealousy of a man because he is younger and more agile on his feet than you. Have you seen the fellow in the dance?”

“The dance!” said Robert. “I will bring Your Majesty a dancing master who will perform more gracefully before your eyes than Master Christopher Hatton.”

“Pish!” said the Queen. “I’ll not see your man. It is his trade to dance.”

She laughed at his discomfiture. She was pleased, thinking of her love for Robert, of the bullion which would shortly lie in her coffers, and of the pique and embarrassment of that pale man of Spain who had had the bad taste, after seeking to marry her, not to wait for more than a few months before marrying a French Princess.

In the Castle which was now her prison, Mary Queen of Scots heard of the tension between Spain and England. Tempestuous and impulsive herself, she was certain that this would mean war between the two countries. She did not understand the characters of Philip and Elizabeth; neither was of a nature to plunge into war. Mary, alas for herself, knew no such caution. Now she had wild hopes. If there were war, and Spain were victorious, she would not only be restored to her throne, but given that of England as well, providing she was ready to return the country to the Catholic Faith; and this she would be most happy to do.

The Casket Letters were causing a great deal of scandal, and many were asking themselves and each other how such a woman as Mary, obviously unfitted to govern her country, could possibly be restored to her throne. A solution was suggested: Why should she not marry an English husband chosen for her by the English Parliament, and one whom she could marry with Elizabeth’s consent? Then she might be considered next in succession if Elizabeth died childless. If her husband were an Englishman, England could be sure of peace with Scotland. There was one man very suitable for the position of Mary’s husband; this man was the first peer of England, Thomas Howard, Duke of Norfolk.

This opinion was put forward by the Catholic peers of the North, for although Norfolk professed himself to be of the Anglican Faith, he was at heart a Catholic.

Leicester, with Sussex and Throckmorton, decided that, providing Norfolk and Mary became good Anglicans and took the rites of the Church of England to Scotland, this match could not fail to be beneficial to England.

Ambition made Norfolk eager for the marriage, but he was a little shaken by the revelation of the Casket Letters.

The Queen, hearing of the plan, sent for Norfolk. “So, my lord, you make great plans?” she said. “You would marry the Queen of Scots and change your rank of Duke for King?”

“Nay, Your Majesty. Why should I seek to marry so wicked a woman, such a notorious adulteress, and one who had committed murder? I love to sleep on a safe pillow.”

“There are some who might consider a crown worth such risks.”

The old Norfolk pride showed itself. “Your Majesty, I count myself, by your favor, as good a Prince at home in my bowling alley in Norfolk as she is in the heart of Scotland.”

The Queen nodded. Those were not idle words. Norfolk, first peer of England, the country’s only Duke, was one of its richest men.

“And, Your Majesty,” went on Norfolk, “I could not marry with her, knowing that she pretends a title to the present possession of Your Majesty’s crown. If I did so, Your Majesty might justly charge me with seeking the crown of England.”

“I well might do so,” said the Queen grimly.

Norfolk felt that he had come well out of a difficult interview, but the thought of a crown, even though it was but the crown of Scotland, could not lightly be dismissed. Mary was a dangerous woman, but she was a fascinating one.

He discussed the matter with Robert, who felt that he could not oppose the marriage while the succession was still not fixed. Elizabeth was strong and healthy, but often people died suddenly. If Mary became Queen of England, Elizabeth’s favorite would have little to hope for unless he showed himself, during the lifetime of Elizabeth, not unfriendly to Mary. Robert’s love and loyalty were for Elizabeth; but he did not see how this marriage of Mary with Norfolk could affect that.

“I will do my best,” said Robert, “to show the Queen the advantages of this marriage. The tormenting problem of the succession must be fixed in some way, and how better than this?”

Norfolk looked at his old enemy. They had never liked each other. Norfolk still regarded Robert as an upstart; Robert did not forget old insults.

Robert arranged that Norfolk should sup with the Queen and put his case before her; but Elizabeth was suspicious, and before he had a chance of speaking of the marriage, she leaned toward him and, taking his ear between her thumb and forefinger, nipped it hard.

“I would wish you, my lord,” she said, “to take good heed to your pillow.”

That was a sly reference to his own remark. The pillow could mean that which he shared with Mary, or another one of wood on which he might lay his head before the axe descended.

Norfolk rose from the supper table at which they sat and, throwing himself upon his knees before her, assured her that his one wish was to serve her, and that he had no intention of making any marriage which should not be in accordance with her wishes.

He left, relieved that he had emerged from a difficult situation with safety. But the matter did not end there. Mary began to write letters to him; and into those letters it seemed that she infused some of that charm of which he had heard so much. She was an adulteress, he believed; he suspected her of murder; but he became more and more fascinated, not only by Scotland’s crown, but by Scotland’s Queen.

In spite of Elizabeth’s objections, the lords would not abandon the idea of the marriage, for it seemed to them the only means of avoiding war with the great Catholic countries, France and Spain, who were ever watching, seeking an opportunity to overthrow Protestant England. The Netherlands were in a sorry state and, once they were completely subdued by the iron hand of Alba and the Inquisition, it might be that Alba’s next task in the establishment of the Catholic Faith throughout the world would be to subdue England. There was one way of holding off that calamity: Promise the succession to Mary Queen of Scots and, to ensure her good behavior, give her a good English husband, a man who could be trusted as they believed they could trust the Duke of Norfolk. The project was the hope of the Catholics in England, and of these there were many.

These peers believed that if they could get rid of Cecil and his party they could achieve this object, for Cecil was upholding the Queen in her objections to the match.

A conspiracy was set on foot to depose Cecil and, because many remembered what had happened to Thomas Cromwell in the days of the Queen’s father, they had the axe in mind for Cecil.

Robert, who had somewhat half-heartedly thrown in his lot with the opponents of Cecil, was chosen as the man to lay the proposition before the Queen. He chose a meeting of the Council to do this; and he pointed out to her that it was the considered opinion of those of her ministers who were not of Cecil’s party, that his policy was leading England toward danger. This policy had, it was felt, so far alienated England from France and Spain, that the only way in which the damage might be remedied was to offer Cecil as a sacrifice to Catholic opinion abroad.

Never had Robert seen the Queen in such a rage.

“These are not my father’s days!” she cried. “I do not send my ministers to the block to make way for others who fancy their rewards! If Cecil is against the marriage of Mary of Scotland to Norfolk, then so is Cecil’s mistress! And you, my lords, should look to your own ways, for it may well be that you will find yourselves in the sort of trouble you plan for Cecil. As for the Queen of Scots, she had better have a care or she may find some of her friends shorter by a head!”

It was clear that the enraged lioness was going to protect her cub Cecil, and that if the lords were to go on with their project, they must do so in secret.

Shortly after that meeting there was a plan to arrest Cecil out of hand, but Robert, who knew of their plans, was alarmed. He was aware of the Queen’s nature; he knew how furious she would be if her ministers acted against her orders and her well-known wishes. He knew that she was a woman who, having once given her loyalty, was not lightly to be turned from it. Cecil had been her good friend; if he had failed in his policy—and the Queen would not admit that he had—he had served her faithfully.

Robert therefore disengaged himself from the plotters and warned them that, unless they desisted, he would have no alternative but to tell the Queen what they intended to do. Cecil himself came to the rescue by offering to modify his attitude; he declared that if the Queen consented to the marriage he would not stand against it.

The Queen of Scots was a born schemer. She could not wait for the propitious moment. She was binding Norfolk more closely to her. Robert saw what was happening. He knew that if there was a rising—and he believed that Norfolk, under the influence of Mary, might be foolish enough to attempt one—civil war would sweep the land; and he, having sided with those who were for the marriage, might be perilously involved.

Elizabeth was his Queen and his love; he would never work with any against her. He felt his position to be dangerous, however, and that it was necessary for him to have an immediate audience with the Queen.

Even so, if he put his case frankly before her, he could not be sure that Elizabeth would entirely acquit him of mischievous dabbling. He knew his Queen better than any one else did; so he retired to his bed in his manor at Tichfield.

It was not necessary to feign sickness, for he was sick with anxiety. He sent a messenger to the Queen, telling her that he thought he was dying and that he must see her before he left this world.

Then he lay back on his pillows, rehearsing his apologies while he waited for the coming of the Queen.

Elizabeth was with her women when the message was brought to her. She rose, and they noticed how she swayed a little. Robert dying! It was impossible. She would not allow it. Her sweet Robin, her Eyes, the man she would love until she died! They were too young to part. There must be many years left for them to be together.

Kat was beside her. “Bad news, Your Majesty?”

“We must leave at once for Tichfield.”

“My lord of Leicester?”

“He is ill … asking for me.”

Kat turned pale. She more than any knew of her mistress’s feelings for that man. It would break Elizabeth’s heart if aught happened to him.

“Do not stand staring!” cried the Queen. “ We will set out at once. We will take doctors and simples … elixirs which must bring him back to health.”

As she rode to Tichfield, she thought of all he had meant to her. She could not get out of her mind the memory of his face behind the prison bars in the Beauchamp Tower.

She hurried to his bedchamber. The sight of him in his bed, wan and exhausted, hurt her profoundly. She knelt by his bed and, taking his limp hand, covered it with kisses.

“Leave me,” she said to Kat and those who had accompanied her. “I would be alone with my lord.”

“Robert,” she said when they had all gone. “My dearest Eyes, what ails you, my sweet Robin?”

He murmured: “Your Majesty, it was good of you to come to sweeten my going.”

“Do not speak of it. It shall not be. I’ll not allow it. You shall be nursed back to health. I myself will nurse you.”

“I, your humble servant, have called you to my bedside …”

“God’s Body!” she cried. “My humble servant indeed! You are my Robert, are you not? There are times when I seem to be the humble servant.”

“Dearest lady, I must not waste the time that is left to me. I must talk with you. There is a plot afoot and I do not hold myself guiltless. I believed that it would be good for England if Norfolk married Mary. Dearest, I feared your life to be in danger while the succession was unsettled.”

“Have done with the succession. It is a bogey that haunts you.”

“Nay, ’tis not so. I fear now that Your Majesty may be in danger. Norfolk makes plans, I fear, in secret with the Queen of Scots. Many of your lords are involved in this … as I myself have been. They meant no treason. They fear Your Majesty to be in danger. Their plan is no more than to restore Mary to Scotland with a good friend of England as her husband, and to satisfy France and Spain by proclaiming Mary your successor.”

“I see, I see,” she said.

“Then I am forgiven for the part I played in this—though I was thinking only of my dearest lady’s safety? Then I am to die happy?”

She bent over him and kissed him. “If there was aught to forgive, my darling, it is forgiven.”

“Now I shall die happy.”

“You’ll do no such thing!”

He smiled at her wanly. “I know, dear lioness, that it is forbidden to speak of death in your presence. There again I crave your pardon. You are strong. You are impatient of death. You are immortal.”

“Come,” she said, with a “pup” of her lips, “we are going to get you well. I myself shall see to that.”

Then she called to her women. She would try her physician’s new medicine. It should cure my lord of Leicester. She commanded him to be cured.

“Already,” said Kat, “he seems miraculously recovered. He looks almost himself.”

“Her Majesty’s presence at my bedside is more health-giving than any elixir,” he murmured.

Elizabeth set about restoring him to health; but meanwhile she sent a messenger to Norfolk bidding him return to Court.

Norfolk was now in the Tower.

Elizabeth’s ministers were of the opinion that Norfolk was loyal to her, but had been led astray, and that he might be released with a warning not to dabble in treasonable matters again.

But the Queen was unsure. She insisted that they wait awhile, keeping him a prisoner while they waited.

Norfolk had many friends at Court, and some of these smuggled messages to him concealed in bottles of wine. This trick was discovered, and the Queen, declaring that Norfolk was guilty of treason, summoned Cecil to her.

“Now, Master Cecil,” she said, “we have proof of his treason.”

“How so, Madam?” asked Cecil.

“These letters which have been sent to him in bottles. What better proof?”

“They prove nothing except that he received messages in bottles, Your Majesty.”

The Queen merely glared at her minister.

“Madam, I will send you the statute of Edward III in which there is clear statement of what does and what does not constitute treason.”

“So you are all for letting Norfolk go that he may plot my downfall?”

“Why not marry Norfolk to someone else, Your Majesty? That would be the best way to put an end to this plan for marriage with Mary.”

She smiled at him. She could trust Cecil. His mind worked in the same way as her own. “I think, Sir Spirit, that you have a good plan there.”

But even as he was leaving her presence a messenger arrived, with the news that all through the North of England the bells were ringing backward. The men of the North, those ardent Catholics who had risen against her father in the Pilgrimage of Grace, were now ready to rise again; and they looked on Mary Queen of Scots as their leader. The Queen was aghast. War she dreaded more than anything; and here was war in her own country, the most hated of all wars: civil war.

Cecil said: “They will try to reach Mary, and our first task must be to remove her from Tutbury. I will send men there at once. We will send her with the utmost speed to Coventry.”

The Queen nodded her approval.

Civil war! Her own people rising against her. The thought made her wretchedly depressed until her anger replaced such feelings. Mary had caused this. Wherever Mary was, there would trouble be. Mary was her hated rival whom she longed to put to death, but for the sake of royalty—that divine right of Kings—she dared not.

The rebellion was speedily quelled. Poor and simple men from the hamlets and the villages were hanging from the gibbets for all to see what happened to those who rebelled against the Queen.

In her wrath, men said, she is as terrible as her father was.

Six hundred men who had followed their leaders were now lifeless hanging corpses, and the North was plunged into mourning.

They must learn, said Elizabeth; they must understand the rewards of treason to the throne.

But Mary she merely kept more closely guarded, while Norfolk lived on in the Tower.

Norfolk had learned his lesson, said the Queen; and she was not entirely sure that he was responsible for the rising. As for Mary, adulteress, murderess, and fomenter of plots that she might be, as a Queen she was apart from ordinary mortals.

Elizabeth’s ministers shook their heads in sorrow and anger. They assured her that she risked her life while Mary lived; she also risked the safety of England.

Elizabeth knew she was risking much, but she felt that in tampering with the privileges of royalty, she risked more.

Mary could not learn her lessons and it was not long before she was plotting again. This time the services of a Florentine banker, named Ridolfi, were employed. Ridolfi lived in London, where he had a branch of his business, but he traveled freely about the Continent, and for this reason he was chosen to carry messages between the Pope, the Spanish ambassador, and the Catholic peers in England.

Norfolk, now home at his county seat, was still under some restraint since his release from the Tower. He was approached by Ridolfi, and, weakling that he was, under the spell of Mary to whom he had been sending money and gifts, found himself once more drawn into mischief and danger.

This time the danger was unmistakable, for messages had come from Alba himself, who promised that if Norfolk would start a revolt, he would send an Army to England to consolidate any success.

The Queen, snapping her fingers at Cecil’s detractors, had created him Lord Burghley; and Burghley was not a man to forget that Norfolk was under grave suspicion, although no longer a prisoner. A messenger from Ridolfi was captured as he landed in England from the Continent, where the Florentine now was. The message was vague and merely indicated that all was going well; but Burghley and his spies were on the scent; and when Norfolk’s servants were put to severe questioning, it was discovered that a plot was in train, involving Norfolk, Mary, the Catholic peers, and—most disturbing—the Pope, Philip, and his commander Alba.

Burghley’s spies were busy and, when letters were smuggled in to Mary, they were intercepted; so the plot was discovered before it had fully matured.

Burghley could restrain his impatience no longer; he presented his evidence to the Queen, with the result that Norfolk was arrested and the Spanish ambassador sent back to his own country.

Now the Queen’s ministers were calling for the blood—not only of Norfolk but of Mary. Elizabeth was calm, as always in moments of danger.

Strangely enough she was still reluctant to execute either Norfolk or Mary. The truth was that she hated strife; she hated executions. Her father and sister had left a bloody trail behind them, and she did not wish to rule as they had—by fear. She had given her consent to the execution of the six hundred at the time of the rebellion, but that, she assured herself, had had to be, for royalty must be maintained and men must learn that it was a cardinal sin to rise against their ruler. Yet, Burghley would reason with her, had not Norfolk rebelled? Was not the Queen of Scots more worthy of death than those six hundred men?

What he said was true. But Mary was a Queen, and Norfolk was the first peer in the land.

She faced her ministers; she listened to their railings against Mary and Norfolk.

“This error has crept into the heads of a number,” said one man, “that there is a person in this land which no law can touch. Warning has already been given her. Therefore the axe must give the next warning.”

“Shall we say,” said another, “that our law is not able to provide for such mischief? If this is so it is defective in a high degree. Mercy was shown my lord of Norfolk but no good followed.”

Then came the great cry from all: “To the scaffold with that monstrous dragon, that adulteress and murderess. And to the scaffold with the roaring lion of Norfolk.”

She temporized as she knew so well how to do. She gave them Norfolk, and on a hot June day he walked out to the scaffold on Tower Hill; but she would not give them Mary.