My Enemy the Queen

"Leicester's Commonwealth"

When Robert returned from the Netherlands, I was at Leicester House with Dorothy and my young son Robert. My elder son, Robert Devereux, Earl of Essex, had by this time taken his Master's degree at Cambridge and had expressed a desire for a quiet life, so Lord Burleigh, his guardian, had thought it an excellent idea for him to retire to one of his properties at Llanfydd in Pembrokeshire, where he could live the life of a country squire and devote himself to his books. I saw him only infrequently at this point, which did not please me, for, of all my children, he was my favorite.

Leicester had aged perceptibly. There was much more gray in his hair and his ruddy looks had intensified. The Queen was right to chide him for overindulgence at table. He had completely lost that mild depression which had been there after the disclosure of our wedding when he had thought, briefly, that he was out of favor forever. Now he was bursting with confidence.

He came into the house where I was waiting to greet him and swept me into his arms declaring that I was more beautiful than ever. He made love with the urgent need of a man who has abstained from the practice for a long time; but I sensed an absent-mindedness, and I knew that my rival was Ambition.

I was faintly irritated that before coming to me he had been to the Queen. I knew this was necessary, but my jealousy made me irrational.

He could not stop talking of the future, which was going to be brilliant.

"She received me with great affection and berated me for staying away too long. She said she thought I had formed such an affection for the Low Countries that I had forgotten that of my birth and my gracious Queen."

"And perhaps," I put in, "your ever-patient wife."

"She did not mention you."

That made me laugh. "It was kind of her not to assault your ears with abuse of me."

"Oh, she'll get over that. I'll swear, Lettice, that in a few months' time she will be receiving you at Court."

"I'm ready to swear otherwise."

"I shall work for it."

"You'll waste your efforts."

"Nay, I know her better than you do."

"The only way you could obtain her forgiveness for me would be to leave me or rid yourself of me in some way. But no matter. She has taken you back into her loving circle, it seems."

"There is no doubt of it. And, Lettice, I believe there is a great future for me in the Netherlands. I was received with such courtesy. I believe they would be ready to make me Governor of the Provinces. They are a desperate country and they seem to look upon me as a savior."

"So, if you had the chance you would desert your royal mistress? I wonder what she would have to say to that!"

"I should have to persuade her."

"You have a big notion of your persuasive powers, my lord."

"How would you like to be Governor's lady?"

"Very well—since I am not accepted here as Leicester's lady."

"It is only at Court."

"Only at Court! Where else is there to be recognized?"

He took my hands and his eyes were alight with that passion which ambition could kindle.

"I am going to see that our family is conveniently placed," he said.

"Haven't you done that? You seem to have set your relations and adherents in the right places throughout the country."

"I have always sought to secure my position."

"Yet you see how easily a frown from the Queen can unseat you."

" Tis true. That is why I have to make sure that I strengthen my hold. There is young Essex. It is time he stopped skulking in Wales and came to Court. I could find a place for him."

"My son seems to like the country according to his letters to me and to Lord Burleigh."

"Nonsense. I have a fine stepson. I want to make his acquaintance again and bring him forward."

"I will write and tell him so."

"And our own little Robert... I have plans for him."

"He is but a baby."

"It is never too soon to plan their future, I assure you."

I frowned. I was anxious about our son. He was delicate, which seemed ironical when I considered his father and myself. My children by Walter Devereux were strong and healthy; it seemed a strange trick of fate that Leicester's boy should be a weakling. He had had difficulty in walking and I had discovered one of his legs to be a trifle shorter than the other, and when he eventually did walk it had been with a slight limp. I loved him the more for his deformity. I felt I wanted to care for him and protect him; and the thought of his making a great marriage made me uneasy.

"Whom do you propose for Robert?" I asked.

"Arabella Stuart," replied Robert.

I was aghast, seeing what he was thinking of. Arabella Stuart had a claim to the throne because she was the daughter of Charles Stuart, Earl of Lennox, the younger brother of the Earl of Darnley, who had married Mary Queen of Scots. Through his mother, the Earl of Lennox was the grandson of Henry VIII's sister, Margaret Tudor.

I said quickly: "You think she has a chance of the throne. How could she? Mary of Scotland's James comes before her."

"She was born on English soil," said Robert. "James is a Scot. The people would favor an English queen."

"Your ambition runs away with your good sense," I said tartly, and added: "You are like your father. He saw himself as the kingmaker, and he ended up without his head."

"I see no reason why there should not be a betrothal."

"And you think the Queen would allow it?"

"I think if I put it to her ..."

"In cozy fashion," I suggested.

"What's the matter with you, Lettice? You must not be put out because Elizabeth will not receive you. I tell you I will soon have that changed."

"It seems you have come back from the Netherlands a conquering hero, sweeping all before you."

"You wait," he said. "I have other plans. What of Dorothy?"

"Dorothy! Have you a royal husband for her?"

"That's exactly what I have."

"I can't wait to hear whom you have found for her."

"Young James of Scotland."

"Robert, you can't be serious. My daughter Dorothy to marry the son of the Queen of Scots."

"Why should she not?"

"I should like to hear his mother's comments on the proposed match."

"Whatever they were they would be of no account. The Queen of Scots is but a prisoner."

"And those of your royal mistress."

"I believe Elizabeth could be persuaded. If James were to swear to remain a Protestant, she would be ready to accept him as her heir."

"And you, my lord, as his good father, would rule the kingdom. And if he should fail to reach the throne there is always Arabella. Have a care, Robert."

"I display the utmost care."

"You are indeed like your father. Remember him. He tried to make your brother Guildford King through Lady Jane Grey. Again let me remind you that it cost him his head. It's dangerous to dabble with crowns."

"Life is a dangerous gamble, Lettice, so one might as well play for high stakes."

"Poor Robert. You have worked hard. You almost reached the crown through Elizabeth. That was a bitter blow and shameful was the manner in which she kept you dangling all those years.

Then it was: 'Robert, my Eyes, my Sweet Robin' and then just as you thought you had your hands on it, it was snatched away. At last you know how the game is played, but you don't give up, do you? You'll achieve your ambition secondhand, as it were. You'll place the power in your puppets' hands and you'll jerk the strings. Robert, you are the most outrageously ambitious man I have ever known."

"Would you have me otherwise?"

"You know full well I would not have you otherwise than you are, but at the same time I would say, Take Care. Elizabeth has received you back into favor, but she is unpredictable. You can be her Sweet Robin one day and That Traitor Leicester the next."

"But you see how she forgives me always. There could never have been a greater blow to her than our marriage, and if you could have seen her tenderness towards me when I was leaving for the Netherlands and on my return ..."

"I was mercifully spared that."

"You must not be jealous, Lettice. My relationship with her is not to be compared with mine and yours."

"No, because she has refused you! It would have been a different matter if she had taken you, would it not? All I say is Take Care. Do not think because she had patted you on the cheek and said you eat too much that you may take liberties with our gracious lady—or you will soon find that she is far from gracious."

"My dear Lettice, I think I know her better than anyone."

"You should. It has been a long acquaintance. But methinks the adulation you have received in the Netherlands may have made you see yourself a little more glorious than in truth you are. You are on dangerous ground, Robert, and I repeat that all I, as your humble wife, am doing is asking you to be careful."

He was not pleased. He had wanted me to applaud his schemes and to display a blind belief in his power to get what he wanted. He did not realize that I was changing towards him or how deeply I resented my expulsion from Court while he was received there with honors and seemed content that this should be so.

But even his new favor at Court did not save him from the Queen's wrath when she heard of his proposals. She sent for him and berated him soundly. I had his account of this—and that of others. She made it clear that both suggested marriages were anathema to her ... simply because both of the participants were my children.

"Think not," she had screamed, so that many could hear, "that I would allow that She-Wolf to glory in her cubs."

So it was clear that I was not to be forgiven. I was no nearer to being received at Court.

Robert was downcast for a while and then as optimistic as ever. "It will pass," he said. "I promise you that ere long she will receive you."

But I doubted this, as the very mention of my name could throw her into such a fury.

She kept Robert at her side as much as possible. She was determined to show me, I was sure, that although I had scored a temporary victory in marrying him, the ultimate triumph would be hers.

If I was not to be received at Court, I was determined that, throughout the country, I would make my presence known. I began by introducing such magnificence into all our houses that people began to say that the Court was poor in comparison. I set seamstresses to work on the most beautiful materials available, and my gowns were as grand as any in the Queen's extensive wardrobe. I dressed my footmen in black velvet with silver boars embroidered on them, and I rode through London in a coach drawn by four white horses. When I moved out I was accompanied by attendants numbering fifty or more; and there was always a company of gentlemen to ride ahead and clear the way for my coach. People used to run out of their houses to see the cavalcade, convinced that it must be the Queen who was passing by.

I would smile on them as graciously as though I were indeed the Queen, and they would gape at me in wonder.

Sometimes I would hear the awestruck whisper: "It is the Countess of Leicester."

I enjoyed these excursions. I had only one regret and that was that the Queen could not see me. But I consoled myself with the knowledge that news of me made its way very quickly to my rival.

The Queen had knighted Philip Sidney in January, which showed that the family was in favor again. Absurdly enough, I was the only member of it who must remain in the cold. And my resentment grew.

Robert told me that Sir Francis Walsingham wanted to marry his daughter to Philip. He thought it was an excellent idea, for it was time Philip married. He was still writing poems extolling Penelope's beauty and his hopeless passion for her, but as Robert pointed out to me—and I agreed with him in this—Philip was not a passionate man who needed physical fulfillment. He was a poet, a lover of the arts, and to him a love affair conducted in verses would be more satisfactory and romantic than one which came to a natural conclusion. Penelope naturally enjoyed being adored in verse, but at the same time she was living with Lord Rich, and although it could not be said to be a happy marriage, at least she was bearing him children.

So the families thought that a union between Frances Walsingham and Philip was a good thing. Frances was a beautiful girl, and if Philip was temporarily lukewarm, they were sure he would change when he married.

Rather to my surprise Philip allowed the arrangements to go on and settlements were drawn up.

When Dorothy had heard of Robert's suggestion that she should marry James of Scotland, she had been a little upset. She told me that nothing on earth would have induced her to, even if the Queen had agreed to it.

"I believe him to be a most unpleasant person," she said. "Dirty and overbearing. Your husband is a little too ambitious, my lady."

"There is no need to upset yourself," I retorted. "The marriage will certainly not take place. The Queen would have you, me, and your stepfather in the Tower if we got as far as that!"

She laughed. "She hates you, my lady. I understand why."

"So do I," I answered.

She looked at me with admiration. "You never grow old," she told me.

I was delighted, for to hear such words from a young and critical daughter was praise indeed.

"I suppose it's because you live excitingly."

"Is my life so exciting?" I pondered.

"Of course it is. You married my father and then you took Robert and he was supposed to be married to Douglass Sheffield, and now the Queen hates you and you just snap your fingers and ride out looking as royal as she does."

"Nobody could do that."

"Well, you look more beautiful anyway."

"Not many would agree with you."

"Everyone would agree with me ... though they might not admit it. I intend to live as you do. I shall snap my fingers at fate, and if your husband brings the King of France or Spain to marry me, I shall answer him by eloping with the man of my choice."

"As both these kings are married, and if they were not would certainly not marry you, that is a situation we need not worry about."

She kissed me and said life was exciting and how marvelous it must be to be Penelope—married to an ogre with the most beautiful young man at Court writing love odes to her, which everyone read and said were works of art and which would immortalize her. "I believe that the way to enjoy life is to make it merry."

"There may be something in that," I agreed.

I should have been warned, I suppose. Dorothy was seventeen and romantic, but I still thought of her as a child. Moreover, I was so immersed in my own affairs that it never occurred to me to look into those of my daughter.

When Sir Henry Cock and his wife invited her to spend a few weeks with them at Broxbourne it seemed a good idea for her to go, and she went off in high spirits.

Soon after she had left, Robert came to Leicester House from Greenwich, and it was clear from his demeanor that something unpleasant had happened. The Queen was in a rage. She had discovered that Philip Sidney was betrothed to Frances Walsingham and her permission had not been asked. She was very annoyed with all parties concerned, and as Philip was Robert's nephew, and Robert was known to take a great interest in family affairs, it occurred to the Queen that he had deliberately withheld the knowledge from her.

Robert had explained that he thought the matter not important enough to worry her with.

"Not important enough!" she had screamed. "Have I not shown favor to that young man! It is only this year that I made him a knight, and he sees fit to betroth himself to Walsingham's girl and say nothing to me!"

Walsingham had arrived, humbly enough, and when the Queen's rage had subsided he was allowed to explain that he also did not think his family of sufficient importance to warrant her interest.

"Of insufficient importance!" cried the Queen. "You should know that all my subjects are of importance to me, you, my Moor, as well as any." The very nickname used was a reproach, for, with her passion for nicknames, she had called him her Moor on account of his dark brows. "You know full well that I am concerned for your family, and you sought to deceive me. I feel it in me to refuse permission for these two to marry."

She showed her displeasure for a few days before she relented and finally gave way, called the young couple to her, gave them her blessing and promised to be a godmother to their first child.

About this time one of Robert's most dangerous enemies died. This was Thomas Radcliffe, the Earl of Sussex. He had been ailing for a long time, which, to Robert's gratification, had meant his long absences from Court. Sussex had served the Queen wholeheartedly, he always claimed, and would let nothing—even her displeasure—stand in the way of his devotion. He had never recovered from the exposure he had endured during the Northern rebellion when he had helped put down her enemies. He was well aware of Robert's ambition and, I believe, genuinely disturbed as to where it would lead him and the Queen. He and Robert had almost come to blows one day in the Queen's presence and called each other traitors to Her Majesty. She hated to see those she loved at war with each other; she was always afraid that some harm would be done to them; so she had ordered that they be removed by the guards and stay in their chambers until their tempers cooled.

Yet it was Sussex who had warned her not to send Robert to the Tower when our marriage had been disclosed to her. In her rage she would have done so, but Sussex had realized the harm such an action would have done to her. As Robert had said, Sussex would have been delighted to see him a prisoner in the Tower, so it seemed there was some truth in the Duke's claim that his first endeavor was to do what was best for the Queen.

Now he was on his deathbed, and Elizabeth went to see him at his home in Bermondsey, where she sat by his bed and was very tender to him; she wept at his passing, for she felt deeply the loss of those men she had bound deeply to her.

He was greatly concerned, he said, because he believed there was much he could still do for her. She told him to rest in peace. None could have served her better and she wanted him to know that when she had been sharp with him she had lost none of her affection for him because she had always known, even when he irked her most, that it was for her good.

He said: "Madam, I fear to leave you."

At which she laughed and said he had a great conceit of himself, and so had she of herself, which was why she believed she could deal with any who worked against her. She knew that he was warning her against Robert, whose ambition, he had often said, would stop at nothing.

There were several at Sussex's deathbed to report what his last words to those present had been: "I am now passing into another world," he had said, "and must leave you to your fortunes and the Queen's graces. But beware of the gypsy for he will be too hard for you all. You do not know the beast as I do."

Of course he was referring to Robert.

Elizabeth mourned Sussex and declared again and again that she had lost a good servant; but she did not heed the warning about "the gypsy."

One day Sir Henry Cock came to Leicester House in a state of great concern. I was immediately anxious, for I guessed that something had happened to my daughter.

I was right. It seemed that Thomas Perrot, the son of Sir John Perrot, was also at Broxbourne, and he and my daughter had formed a romantic attachment. The vicar of Broxbourne had come to Sir Henry with an unusual story. He said that two strange men came to him and asked for the keys of his church. Naturally he refused to give them; they went away and after a while he grew uneasy and went to the church to see if all was well. He found that the church door had been forced open and that a marriage was in progress. One of the two men who had previously asked him for the keys was acting as a minister. The vicar then told them that they could not perform a marriage ceremony in his church, as he alone was entitled to do that. One of the men, whom he realized later was Thomas Perrot, then asked him to marry him. This the vicar refused to do and the strange man proceeded with the ceremony.

"The fact was," said Sir Henry, "the young lady in question was her daughter, the Lady Dorothy Devereux, and she is now the wife of Thomas Perrot."

I was dumbfounded, but as this was the sort of adventure I should have indulged in myself I could scarcely blame my daughter. It must be that she was in love with Perrot and determined to marry him, so I thanked Sir Henry and said that if the marriage were a true one—and it would be of the utmost importance to make sure that it was—then there was nothing we could do about it.

When Robert heard what had happened, he was at first annoyed. Dorothy had seemed to him a good bargaining counter. Who knew what other glittering prizes he might have drawn out of his imagination for her? The fact that James of Scotland was not possible would not deter him; and now she had removed herself by marrying Perrot.

The marriage was proved to be legal, and very soon after Dorothy and her husband came to Leicester House.

She was radiantly happy and so was her husband, and, of course, Robert was charming to them. He promised he would do all he could to advance them. Robert, as always, was the devoted family man.

It was the end of the old year 1583 and fortunately I had no idea then of the tragedy the new year would bring to us. Both Robert and I had always tried to hide our anxieties about our little son, by telling each other that lots of children were delicate in their infancy and grew out of it.

He was a bright little fellow, gentle in demeanor; he certainly did not take after either of his parents. He adored Robert, who, when he was at home, lost little time before paying a visit to the nursery. I have seen him carry the child on his shoulders while little Robert screamed with delighted terror as he was swung in the air, and, when put down, demanded more.

He loved us both. I think we seemed godlike to him. He liked to see me ride out in my chariot drawn by four white horses and my memory of him, his little hands stroking one of the ornaments on my dress, will stay with me forever.

Leicester was continually making plans for great marriages and he would not have given up the idea of Arabella Stuart even though the Queen had poured scorn on it.

After Sussex's death, Robert seemed more than ever with the Queen. I knew that one of her pleasures in keeping him constantly at her side came from the fact that she deprived me of his company. You may be his wife, she was telling me, but I am his Queen.

She was loving to him. He was her dear Eyes and Sweet Robin, and she became irritable if he stayed away from her for long. Sussex's warning had left her completely unmoved. They were saying at Court that no one would ever take his place with her, for if he could survive his marriage he could survive anything.

Alas her enmity towards me showed no sign of abating, and I was constantly hearing that it was unwise to mention my name in her presence and that on the occasions when she spoke of me it was always as that She-Wolf. She had evidently decided to accept my "cubs," though, for both Penelope and Dorothy were received at Court.

As the new year approached it was time to prepare the Queen's New Year's gifts. Robert had always endeavored to make each year's outstrip the previous one. I helped him to choose his gift, which was a large porringer of dark green stone with two magnificent gilt handles curled about it like golden snakes. It was most impressive. Then I discovered that he had another gift for her. It was a necklace made of diamonds. He had given jewels on many occasions, but never anything quite so extravagant as this. I felt myself go cold with rage when I saw that it was decorated with lovers' knots, and I believe I would have torn it apart if I could have done so.

He found me holding it in my hands.

"To placate Her Majesty," he said.

"You mean the lovers' knots?"

"That's just a design. I mean the diamonds."

"It's what I call a rather bold design, but I am sure the Queen will approve of it."

"She will be delighted with it."

"And no doubt ask you to clasp it round her neck?"

"I shall claim that honor." He must have sensed my mood, for he added quickly: "Perhaps if she is softened enough I might ask the all-important question."

"And that is?"

"That she will receive you at Court."

"You would not please her by begging such a favor."

"Nevertheless I intend to do my utmost to bring it about."

I looked at him cynically and said: "If I were there, your position would be difficult, Robert. You would have to play the lover to two women—and both of them of uncertain temper."

"Now, Lettice, let us be sensible. You know I have to placate her. You know I have to be in attendance. It makes no difference to us."

"It makes a great deal of difference. It means I have a husband whom I rarely see because he is constantly dancing attendance on another woman."

"She'll come round."

"I see no sign of it."

"Leave it to me."

He was jaunty and confident as he went off to put the lovers' knots round the royal neck, while I asked myself how long I was expected to endure this. There had been a time when I had been reckoned to be the most beautiful woman at Court; and the reason I was not known as such was not due to a fading of my charms, but simply because I was not there.

I asked him as soon as I had an opportunity how the Queen had liked the necklace. He smiled complacently.

"It pleased her mightily. She would wear it immediately and has scarce put it aside since."

"A clever choice, I see. And was she any more inclined to look with favor on the giver's wife?"

He shook his head gloomily. "You know her temper. She became moody when I broached the subject and made it clear that she was not ready to consider it yet."

I knew that I was as far from being received at Court as ever.

It was true we entertained at Leicester House, Kenilworth, Wanstead and our other smaller residences and then I came into my own, but it seemed that whenever I was enjoying my role as wife to the most influential man in England, the Queen would decide that she would visit the Earl of Leicester and that meant that Leicester's wife must disappear.

My patience was beginning to run out. Robert was still my loving husband—when he was with me—and I made it my business to make sure that there was no other woman in his life—apart from the Queen. Whether this was due to a slackening of desire because of his increasing years, the satisfaction he derived from me, or fear of incurring the Queen's displeasure, I could not say; but whatever else Robert was he was the Queen's man, and that was something she was never going to allow him—or me—to forget.

He might be satisfied with his rising star but I was certainly not with my declining one.

In my frustration at being excluded I gave way to even wilder extravagance. I wore more glittering gowns when I rode out, and added to my retinue. As I passed through the streets people stood in greater awe than before and once I heard it whispered: "She's a grander lady than the Queen herself." And that gave me pleasure ... but only temporarily.

Was I, Lettice, Countess of Leicester, going to allow myself to be pushed aside simply because another woman was so jealous of me that she could not bear to hear my name mentioned? It was not in my nature to accept that. Something was going to happen.

I was considerably younger than Leicester, considerably younger than the Queen. They might be satisfied with the state of affairs, but I was not.

I began to look around and found that in our own household there were some very attractive men. That I had lost none of my appeal I could see by the covert glances that came my way— though none, fearing Leicester's terrible wrath, would dare make their meaning clear.

Naturally this state of affairs could not go on indefinitely.

In May of that year news reached England of the death of Anjou. There was talk of his having been poisoned, as there always was when someone important died, and one suggestion was that Robert's spies had been responsible because he feared the Queen might marry Anjou. That was nonsense and even Robert's enemies gave little credence to the story. The fact was well known that the Queen's Little Frog Prince had been a poor specimen of manhood—stunted, pockmarked as he was, he had indulged his senses to excess and no doubt because of his frail physique had suffered through this.

The Queen went into deep mourning for him and bewailed her loss. He was the one man she would have married, she declared, but no one believed her. I was never quite sure whether she deluded herself into thinking she might have married him; it was certainly safe to think so now that he was dead. It was difficult to understand how she, so clearheaded in state matters, should have his strange obsession about marriage. I think that it might have soothed her in some way to let herself believe that had Anjou lived she might have married him. She now needed Leicester close to her, so that one lover could compensate her for the loss of the other.

Anjou's death was followed by that of the Prince of Orange, the hope of the Netherlands, who was assassinated by a fanatic incited by the Jesuits. There was deep gloom throughout the country and the Queen was constantly in conference with her ministers, which meant that I scarcely saw my husband at all.

When he did pay me a brief visit he told me that the Queen was not only concerned about what was happening in the Netherlands, but the success of the Spaniards there made her very much afraid of Mary Queen of Scots. Ever since that queen had been the prisoner of ours, there had been alarms. Plots were constantly formed to rescue her and set her on the throne. Robert told me that again and again Elizabeth had been advised to get rid of her, but she believed that royalty was divine and whatever annoyance Mary of Scotland caused her, she still remained royal and a crowned queen at that. There could be no doubt of her legitimacy and claim to royalty, which made her all the more deadly an enemy. Elizabeth once told Robert that she was prepared to die at any time because no one's life was more threatened than her own.

The Court was at Nonsuch and I was at Wanstead when my little son's health took a turn for the worst. I called in our physicians and the gravity of their comments threw me into deep despair.

My little son had been subject to fits which left him very weak after they occurred; and all that year I had feared to leave him to nurses. He seemed to find great comfort in my presence and looked so sorrowful when I even hinted at going away that I could not leave him.

The July heat was oppressive and as I sat by his bedside I thought about my love for his father—of which he was the fruit— and how important Robert had once been to me, dominating my life. I had thought then that the affection between us would last forever and even now I knew that I should never be quite free of it. If we could have lived together without the shadow of the Queen over us, I believe ours might have been the greatest love story of our times. Alas, though, she was there. There was a trio where there should have been two. The Queen and Robert were larger than life, I always thought; and perhaps I, too, had a little of that quality. Not one of the three of us would set aside our pride or ambition, our self-love, or whatever it was. If I could have been the meek, adoring wife which Douglass Sheffield might have been, it would have been easier. I could have been content to remain in the shadows and allow my husband to wait upon the Queen, to give her the adulation she demanded and accept this as necessary to his career.

I could never do that; and I knew that sooner or later I would make that clear.

And now our child was in danger and I felt that when he died—as I feared he would—the link which bound me to Robert Dudley would have grown a little weaker.

When I sent a messenger to Court to tell Robert of the condition of our son, his response was immediate.

As I greeted him in the hall I could not resist saying: "So you came. She spared you."

"I should have come had she not," he answered. "But she is most concerned. How is the boy?"

"Sadly sick, I fear."

Together we went to our child.

He lay in his bed looking small and wan in all that magnificence which I had made for him. We knelt by his bed and Robert held one hand and I the other and we assured him that we should stay with him as long as he wanted us.

That made him smile and the pressure of those hot little fingers on my hand filled me with such emotion as I could scarcely bear.

He died peacefully while we looked on and then our grief was so intense that we could only cling together and mingle our tears. We were not the ambitious Leicesters at that time—only two unhappy, bereaved parents.

We buried him in the Beauchamp Chapel at Warwick and we had a statue made of him lying on his tomb in a long gown; the description described him as the "Noble Impe" and stated who he was and the date of his death at Wanstead.

The Queen sent for Robert and declared that she was determined to comfort him. She wept for the dear lost child and said that Robert's sorrow was hers. Her sympathy, however, did not extend to the child's mother. Not a word did she send me. I was still the outcast.

That was a year of disaster, for it was not long after the death of my child that a most scurrilous pamphlet appeared.

I found this in my bedchamber at Leicester House so someone must have put it there intentionally for me to see. It was the first I heard of it but in a short time the whole Court, the whole country were to be talking of it.

The target was Leicester. How he was hated! There could never have been a man who aroused such envy. He was now once more high in the Queen's favor and it seemed that none could ever displace him. Her affection for him was as steadfast as her hold on the crown. Robert must have been the richest man in the country; he spent lavishly and was often embarrassed for money, but that only meant that he had temporarily spent more than he could afford. He was at the Queen's side when she made important decisions, and some said, he was King in all but name.

So they envied him and their hatred was venomous.

I looked at the small book which was entitled The Copye of a Letter wryten by a Master of Arte at Cambridge.

On the first page my husband's name caught my eyes.

"You know the Bear's love which is all for his paunch. ..." I read, and I was soon in no doubt that the Bear was Robert.

There followed an account of his relationship with the Queen. I wondered what she would say if she ever saw it. And then ... his crimes. Naturally Amy Robsart's death was one of the highlights. According to the pamphlet, Robert had acquired a certain Sir Richard Verney to murder her and made the way clear for the Queen and him to marry.

Douglass Sheffield's husband was mentioned as having been poisoned by Leicester and was said to have died of an artificial catarrh which stopped his breath. I knew what was coming next, for I could not hope to escape the libel. There it was. Leicester had taken me in lust while my husband lived and when I was with child we destroyed the child and afterwards he had my husband murdered.

It seemed that any person who had died mysteriously had been poisoned by him. Even the Cardinal de Chatillon was alleged to have been a victim because he threatened to make it known that Leicester had prevented the marriage of Elizabeth with Anjou.

Robert's Dr. Julio was mentioned as the man whose expert knowledge of poisons had aided Leicester in his wicked work.

I was astonished. I read on and on. So much in this book could be true, but it defeated its end by the absurd exaggerations and accusations. On the other hand it was a blow at Leicester, and the manner in which his name had been coupled with that of the Queen would create a very unpleasant situation.

Within a few days the pamphlet, which had been printed in Antwerp, was circulated throughout London and the country. Everyone was talking about what they were calling Leicester's Commonwealth.

Philip Sidney came riding over to Leicester House. He was furious and declared that he was going to write a reply in defense of his uncle. The Queen made an order of the Council that the book —which she declared to her knowledge was entirely false—should be suppressed; but that was not an easy thing to bring about. People were ready to risk a good deal to get their hands on Leicester's Commonwealth. It was more interesting, though, than Philip's beautifully written piece in which he asked the man who had written this scurrilous pamphlet to come forth, but he knew him to be a base and wretched tongue that dared not speak his own name. He added that on his father's side he belonged to a great and noble family, but his chief honor was to be a Dudley.

It was no use. Leicester's Commonwealth flourished; and all the evil stories, which in the past had been hinted and whispered, were now set down in print—and more calumnies added.

There could be no doubt that as that tragic year passed Robert was the most talked of man in England.