My Enemy the Queen

Essex

For a time I reveled in my marriage and I was happy. I had a handsome, young, adoring husband who was not constantly in attendance on another woman. My son Robert, Earl of Essex, was fast becoming one of the Queen's first favorites, and it seemed likely that he would eventually take his stepfather's place.

"One of these days I will tell the Queen that she must receive you at Court," he told me.

He was very different from Leicester, who had always been so cautious and devious. Sometimes I trembled for him. He had so little tact and was not going to pretend to what he did not feel for the sake of expediency. This could be attractive in its initial stages, but could it last with a woman as vain as the Queen, and one so accustomed to adulation as she was? At the moment Essex was refreshingly youthful, an enfant terrible. He himself had always been inordinately vain, but was he overestimating his influence with the Queen?

I discussed this with Christopher, who was of the opinion that the Queen was so enamored of his youth and good looks that she would forgive him a good deal. Christopher's youth and good looks had done likewise for him, I reflected; but I should not be ready to endure insolence, however young and good-looking he might be; and I doubted Elizabeth would either.

I had thought it wise to wait a year before marriage in view of the rumors about Leicester's death and the fact that my new husband was some twenty years younger than I. The year that followed was a happy one.

We had always been a loyal family. One of Leicester's most endearing qualities had been devotion to his; and although my children had been on the best of terms with the first of their stepfathers, they were nonetheless ready to accept the second.

My favorite daughter was Penelope. She was something of an intrigante, as I myself was, and whatever her misfortunes, they never depressed her, and she was constantly looking around for exciting adventures. I knew, of course, that her life was not quite what it seemed. She lived quite decorously at Leighs in Essex and in Lord Rich's London home. In the country she appeared to be a model of virtue, devoting herself to her growing brood. She now had five children—three sons, Robert, Henry and Charles, and two girls, Lettice (named for me) and Penelope for herself. But when she came to Court she was full of plans.

She deplored the fact that the Queen would not receive me, and kept assuring me that Essex would lose no opportunity to get me reinstated.

"If Leicester could not do it, do you think Essex can?" I demanded.

"Ah," laughed Penelope, "do you think Leicester tried hard enough?"

I had to agree that he would have found it difficult to plead the cause of his wife, who was ostracized for the very reason that she was his wife.

They were often at Leicester House—my two daughters, my son Walter, and very often Essex. His friendship with Charles Blount, with whom he had fought a duel over the chess queen, had grown, and Charles, who was after all the elder brother of my husband, was very much one of the family. Frances Sidney was also a frequent visitor; and the talk round my table was full of vitality and sometimes wild. I did not care to restrain them, because I thought it would call attention to my age as they were all younger than I, although at times I wondered what the Queen would have thought could she have heard them.

The most reckless of them all was Essex, who was growing more and more sure of his domination over the Queen. Charles Blount warned him now and then that he ought to have a care, but Essex just laughed at him.

I used to watch him with great pride, for I was sure it was not just a mother's prejudice which made him supreme in my eyes. He was no more handsome than Leicester had been in his youth, and he possessed the same magnetism; but whereas Leicester had seemed to possess all the perfections nature could bestow on a man, Essex's very weaknesses were more endearing than Leicester's strength had been.

Leicester had always calculated the effect of what he did, weighing up the advantage to himself. Essex's very impulsiveness was appealing because it was dangerous. And honest—at least as he saw it. He could be very gay and then suddenly melancholy; he was vigorous and excelled at outdoors pastimes; then suddenly he would fall ill and have to take to his bed. He had a strange loping walk which made it possible to pick him out in a group from a long distance, and somehow it touched me deeply whenever I noticed it. Of course he was very handsome with that mass of auburn hair and those dark eyes—the coloring he had inherited from me—and of course he was very different from the other young men who circulated about the Queen. They were sycophants and he was never that. Moreover, he had a genuine passion for the Queen; he was in love with her in a way, but never did he subdue his own nature to suit hers. He would not pretend that she was all-knowing, if he disagreed with her.

I was very afraid as to where his impulsive steps would lead him and I was constantly begging him to take care.

When he sat with Penelope, Charles Blount, Christopher, Frances Sidney and myself, he would talk of what he hoped to do.

He believed the Queen should be more bold with the Spaniards. They had suffered a bitter and humiliating defeat and it should be followed up. He was going to tell the Queen what course of action she should take. He had great plans. For one thing he wanted a standing army.

"Soldiers should be well trained," he cried, waving his arms enthusiastically. "Each time we go to war we have to train men and boys anew. We want them ready. I am constantly telling her this. When I take my army to the war I want soldiers not plowmen."

"She will never agree to let you go out of the country," Penelope reminded him.

"Then I shall go without her consent," retorted my son loftily.

I wondered what Leicester would have said.

Sometimes, tentatively, I reminded him of how his stepfather had behaved towards the Queen.

"Oh, he was like the rest," retorted Essex. "He dared not cross her. He pretended to agree with everything she said or did."

"Not always, and he crossed her more than once. He married me, remember."

"He never crossed her openly."

"He remained her favorite to the end of his life," I added.

"So shall I," boasted Essex, "but I shall do it my way."

I wondered, and continued to fear for him, for although Penelope was close to me, it was Essex who was my favorite. I thought how strange it was that the Queen and I should love the same men and that for so long the man who was of most importance to her should be to me also.

I knew that she still mourned Leicester. I heard that she kept a miniature of him which she looked at often; and that she had the last letter he had written her in a box which was labeled: "His last letter."

Yes, it was like a strange joke of fate that now my husband was dead the man she should most care about should be my son.

Essex was complaining that his debts were many and that, although the Queen showed her favor by keeping him at her side, she had bestowed nothing of value on him—no titles, no lands, such as those she had given to his stepfather; and he was too proud to ask her for them.

He was restive and longed for adventure of a kind that would bring him money. War was the answer, for, if it were victorious, spoils went with it. Moreover he was growing more insistent—and others agreed with him—that war with the Spaniards should be pursued.

The Queen agreed at length that an expedition might be sent out. Don Antonio, the ex-King of Portugal, had been deposed a year after he had come to the throne on the death of King Henry, and had been living in England ever since that time. Now King Philip of Spain had sent the Duke of Alva to claim Portugal for Spain. As the Portuguese were resentful of the Spanish usurpation, Portugal appeared to be a good battlefield. Sir Francis Drake was to take care of the fleet operations and Sir John Norris those of the land.

When Essex hinted that he should go, the Queen flew into a rage and he knew that it was useless to say more to her, but, being Essex, he was not deterred, and planned to go without telling her.

He came to say goodbye to me a few days before he left, and I was flattered to be taken into his confidence on this very secret matter, especially when the Queen was excluded.

I said: "She will be furious with you. It may be that she will not take you back."

He laughed at that. He was so confident of knowing how to deal with her.

I warned him, but not too seriously. To tell the truth, I was rather pleased at the thought of her anger and frustration at losing him.

How he loved intrigue! He and Penelope planned together.

The night he left he was going to invite Penelope's husband, Lord Rich, to his chamber to sup with him, and after his guest had left he would make his way to the park where his groom would be waiting for him with fleet horses.

"Drake will never allow you to board his ship," I told him. "He knows full well it would be against the Queen's wishes, and he is a man who would not risk offending her." •

Essex laughed. "Drake will not see me. I have arranged with Roger Williams to have a ship waiting for me. We shall put to sea and conduct a campaign of our own if they won't let us join with them."

"You terrify me," I said; but I was proud of him, proud of that bold, reckless courage which I believed he had inherited from me, for it certainly had not come from his father.

He kissed me, all charm and concern. "Nay, dearest Mother, fear not. I promise you this: I shall come home so covered in glory and with so much Spanish gold that all men will marvel. I will give the Queen a part of it and make it clear to her that if she will keep me at her side she must accept my mother, too."

It all sounded very fine, and such was his enthusiasm that, temporarily at least, I could believe him.

He had written several letters to the Queen explaining what he was doing, and these he had locked in his desk.

He set out in the early morning for Plymouth and after riding ninety miles on his horse, he sent his groom back with the keys of his desk and instructions that these were to be given to Lord Rich, with the request that he should open the desk and take the letters to the Queen.

The fury of the Queen when she received those letters was so great that those at Court said it was the end of Essex. She swore about him, calling him all the unflattering names she could think of, and promising herself that she would show him what it meant to flout the Queen. I could not repress a certain gratification at her frustration and disappointment while at the same time I was apprehensive as to how deeply Essex had injured his chances.

She immediately wrote to him, commanding his return, but it was not until three months later that he came home and when he did he showed me the letters she had sent him. She must have been in a fine rage when she wrote them.

When the letters came into his hands after weeks of adventures —mostly disastrous—he did have enough wisdom to realize that immediate obedience was essential.

The expedition had been a failure, but Drake and Norris returned with cargoes of rich treasure stolen from the Spaniards, so it was not entirely a lost effort.

Essex presented himself to the Queen, who demanded an explanation of his actions, at which he fell onto his knees and told her how enchanted he was to see her. It was worth everything he had suffered to see her again. She might punish him for his folly. He did not care. He had come home and been allowed to kiss her hand.

He really meant that. He was delighted to be home; and she, in her glittering gown and her aura of regality, would have struck him afresh with her unique quality.

She made him sit beside her and tell her of his adventures, and she was clearly happy to have him with her, so that it was obvious that everything had been forgiven.

"It is as it was with Leicester," said everyone. "Essex can do no wrong."

It may be that Elizabeth, knowing that he had gone away to make his fortune, determined that he should learn to make it at home. She became generous to him and he began to grow rich. Most important of all she gave him the right to farm customs on the sweet wines which were imported into the country and thus presented him with an opportunity to reap a big income. This right had been one of her gifts to Leicester and I knew, through him, what an asset it had been.

My son was the Queen's first favorite and, oddly enough, he was in love with her in his own peculiar way. The question of marriage, which had occupied Leicester for so long, would never occur to him; but she fascinated him completely; he adored her. I saw some of the letters he wrote to her and they glowed with this extraordinary passion. This did not prevent his affairs with others and he was getting a reputation for philandering. He was, of course, irresistible—with his looks, his charming manners and court favor. I could see how he suited the Queen at this time of her life. She would never love him as deeply as she had loved Leicester, but this was different. This young man—who spoke his mind so freely, who detested subterfuge—had placed her on a pedestal to be adored and she was enchanted.

I watched his progress with delight, wonder and triumph because this was my son who, in spite of his maternal parent, had found his way into her heart. At the same time I was apprehensive. He was so rash. He did not seem to realize the danger all about him—or if he did, he did not care. His enemies were everywhere. I greatly feared Raleigh—clever, subtle, handsome Raleigh—beloved of the Queen, but never quite as she had loved my two—my husband and my son. Sometimes the irony of it all would present itself to me and I would be hysterical with laughter. It was like a quadrille. The four of us weaving our pattern to the tune which was not entirely of her making. One of the dancers had left the dance now, but the three of us remained.

Essex had no head for money. How different from Leicester! And Leicester had died deep in debt. I often wondered what would happen to my son. The richer he became—through the Queen's bounty—the more generous he was. All those who served him benefited. They declared they would follow him to the ends of the earth but sometimes I wondered if their loyalty would have been so firm if he ever lacked the means to pay for it.

My darling Essex! How I loved him! How proud I was of him! And how I feared for him!

It was Penelope who drew my attention to his increasing devotion to Frances Sidney. Frances was a very beautiful girl; her darkness inherited from her father, whom the Queen had called her Moor, was arresting; but because she was quiet she always seemed a little apart from the rest of the young who congregated around my table.

Penelope said that Frances appealed to Essex because she was so different from him.

"Do you think he intends to marry her?" I asked.

"It would not surprise me."

"She is older than he is—a widow with a daughter."

"He has always felt protective towards her since Philip died. She is calm and unobtrusive. She would not attempt to interfere with what he planned. I think he would like that."

"My dear Penelope, there is not a man in England who can have a brighter future than your brother. He could marry into one of the greatest and richest families in the land. He cannot choose Walsingham's daughter."

"My dear Mother," retorted Penelope, "it is not our choice but his."

She was right, but I could not believe it. Sir Francis Walsingham wielded a great deal of power in the country; he was one of the Queen's most able ministers, but she had never made him one of her real favorites; he was in the category which was acceptable for talent. The Queen would have been the first to admit that he had served her well. He had set up one of the finest spy systems in the world, and a great deal of this he had paid for out of his own resources. He it was who had been the prime mover in bringing the members of the Babington conspiracy to justice, which had resulted in the execution of Mary Queen of Scots. He was a man of great honesty and integrity, but he had certainly not amassed a fortune, nor had he gained great honors. But this Essex swept aside. He had decided to marry Frances Sidney.

Penelope and I with Christopher and Charles Blount talked to him, and Charles asked what he thought the Queen would say.

"I know not," cried Essex. "Neither would her disapproval deter me."

"It could result in your banishment from Court," Christopher reminded him.

"Good Christopher," boasted Essex, "do you think I do not know how to manage the Queen?"

"Pray do not even mention such a thing," begged Charles. "If such words were carried to the Queen ..."

"We are all friends here," retorted Essex. "Leicester married, and she forgave him."

"But not his wife," I reminded him bitterly.

"Had I been Leicester I should have refused to go to Court without my wife."

"Had you been Leicester, my son, he would never have retained the Queen's favor throughout his life. I do beg of you, take care. Leicester was to her what no man ever was or will be, yet he knew he had to walk with care."

"I am to her what no man ever was or shall be. You will see."

Of course he was young and arrogant, and she had made much of him. I wondered whether he would ever begin to learn.

The young people admired him. They lacked my experience and approved of his boldness, and once again I did not wish to seem old and unadventurous, so I was silent.

Perhaps our opposition to the match made Essex all the more determined.

He came to see me on his return from Seething Lane, where Sir Francis was living, and told me that he had won his approval for the match.

"The old man is very ill," said Essex, "and I think he cannot last long. He told me that he has little to leave Frances for his debts are many. He said he doubted there would be enough money to bury him with dignity, so much had he spent in the service of the Queen."

I knew Walsingham was right and I thought him a fool for doing so. Leicester had served the Queen and made a very profitable affair of it—yet he also had died in debt, and at this very time I was bemoaning the loss of certain treasures which had had to be sold to pay them.

The outcome was that my son and Walsingham's daughter— who was Philip Sidney's widow—were married secretly.

I was shocked when I called on Sir Francis to see how ill he was. He was delighted, though, by his daughter's marriage. He told me that he had been anxious about her future. Philip Sidney had left little and he had little to leave either. "To live in the Queen's service is a costly matter," he said.

Indeed he was right. When I think of what Leicester had spent on New Year's gifts to the Queen—the diamonds, the emeralds, the necklaces of lovers' knots—I thought it was small wonder that my treasures had to go to pay for them.

Poor Sir Francis died soon after that and he was buried secretly at midnight because a proper funeral would have been too expensive.

The Queen was sorry and mourned for him. "I shall miss my Moor," she said. "Aye, miss him sadly. He was a good servant to me and I did not always treat him kindly, but he knew well that my respect for him went deep, and I was not the ungrateful mistress I might sometimes have appeared to be. I hear there is very little left for his poor widow and his girls."

After that she took a little interest in Frances and made her sit and talk to her. This had a rather unfortunate sequel because Frances quickly became pregnant.

The Queen was very observant of her women; she seemed to have an extra sense where their romantic attachments were concerned.

Frances herself told me what happened.

The Queen never minced her words and it often seemed that she tried to remind people of her father Henry VIII by a certain masculine coarseness.

She prodded Frances in the stomach and demanded to know whether she carried anything there which a virtuous widow should not. Frances was not the most subtle of women and she immediately flushed scarlet, so that the Queen knew her suspicions were correct.

That extraordinary interest in the sexual activities of those about her, which could flare into sudden anger, bewildered many. She behaved as though the act of love fascinated her while it disgusted her.

Frances said she received a sharp nip in the arm with a demand to explain by whom she was pregnant.

For all her quietness, Frances had dignity; she lifted her head and said: "My husband."

"Your husband!" cried the Queen. "I do not recall anyone's asking my permission to marry you."

"Madam, I did not think I was of sufficient importance to make that necessary."

"You are the daughter of the Moor and I always had a regard for him. Now he is dead your welfare is more than ever my concern. He married you in secret to Philip Sidney and excused himself with talk of no importance! I rated him sharply then, and you knew it. And have I not kept you here beside me since he died!"

"Yes, Madam, you have been most gracious to me."

"So ... you thought fit to marry. Come. Tell me who he is."

Frances was terrified. She could only burst into tears at which the Queen's suspicions were aroused. Frances asked leave to retire that she might compose herself.

"You will remain," said the Queen. "Now tell me when you married, and I'll swear it was that the child you carry might be born in time. I tell you this: I will not have this lewd behavior in my Court. I do not treat this matter lightly." She then took Frances by the arm and shook her roughly, and when Frances fell to her knees she received a blow at the side of her face to remind her that she was withholding information which the Queen was demanding.

Frances was aware that sooner or later she would have to reveal her husband's name and that the Queen's fury would be great. She was old enough to remember what had happened when Leicester had married me.

Because of Frances's obvious fear, the Queen began to grow suspicious.

"Come, girl," she cried. "Who is your partner in this? Tell me, or I'll beat it out of you."

"Madam, we have long loved each other. Ever since my first husband was so cruelly wounded ..."

"Yes, yes. Who? Tell me, girl. By God's blood, if you do not obey me, you will be sorry. I promise you that."

"It is my Lord Essex," said Frances.

She said that the Queen stared at her as though struck dumb, and forgetting she was in the presence of her sovereign, from which only permission should release her, so great was her terror that she rose to her knees and stumbled from the room, while the Queen just stood there staring at her.

As she ran away she heard the Queen's voice, raised and deadly.

"Send for Essex. Bring him here without delay."

Frances came straight to me at Leicester House in a state of collapse. I got her to bed while she told me what had happened.

Penelope, who was at Court, came shortly after her.

"All hell has broken loose," she said. "Essex is with the Queen and they are shouting at each other. God knows what will be the outcome. People are saying that before the day is out Essex will be in the Tower."

We waited for the storm to burst. I remembered so vividly the time when Simier had told the Queen that Leicester was married. She had wanted to send him to the Tower and had only been restrained from doing so by the Earl of Sussex. But she had relented. I did not know how deep her affection went for my son, but I did know that it was of a different nature from that which she had borne my husband. That had gone deep, entwined with the roots of her girlhood. I believed that which she bore my son was a more frail plant and I trembled for him. He would lack the tact of Leicester. He would show bravado where Leicester would have brought out his considerable diplomacy.

I waited at Leicester House with Penelope and Frances. In due course Essex came to us.

"Well," he said, "she is furious with me. She calls me ungrateful, reminding me that she brought me up and can as easily cast me down."

"A favorite theme," I commented. "Leicester heard it again and again throughout his life. She did not suggest sending you to the Tower?"

"I think she is on the point of doing so. I told her that much as I revered her, I was a man who would live his own life and marry where he chose. She said she hated deceit and when her subjects kept secrets from her it was because they knew they had something to hide, to which I replied that, knowing her uncertain temper, I had had no wish to arouse it."

"Robin!" I cried aghast. "You never did!"

"Something of the nature," he said carelessly. "And I demanded to know why she was so against my marriage, at which she replied that if I had come to her in a seemly manner and told her what I wished, she would have given the matter her consideration."

"And refused you permission!" I cried.

"And that would have meant that I should then have been obliged to disobey you instead of merely displeasing you."

"One day," I told him, "you will go too far."

I was to remember those words later, and even then they sounded like a tocsin ringing in advance to warn me of danger.

"Well," he went on, swaggering a little before us, "she told me that it was not only the secrecy which angered her but that I, for whom she had had grand plans, should have married beneath my station."

I turned to Frances, understanding her feelings. Had it not happened once to me? I wanted to comfort her and I said reassuringly: "She would have said that of anyone unless she were royal. I remember how she was ready—or said she was—to consider a princess for Leicester."

"It was an excuse to hide her fury," said Essex complacently. "She would have been mad with rage whomsoever I had married."

"The point is," said Penelope, "what happens now?"

"I'm in disgrace. Cast out of Court. 'You will want to dance attendance on your wife,' she said, 'so we shall not be seeing you at Court for some time.' I bowed and left her. She is in a vile mood. I do not envy those who serve her at close quarters."

I wondered how much he cared. He did not appear to in the least at that moment, which was comforting for Frances.

"Think how much he loves you," I pointed out to her, "to incur the Queen's displeasure for your sake." Those words were like an echo coming down through the years—a repetition of the dance—with Essex the Queen's partner now, instead of Leicester. There was the usual buzz of speculation at Court. Essex is out.

What excitement for the others—men like Raleigh, who had always been at odds with him, and the old favorites. Hatton perked up considerably. Poor Hatton, he was showing his years, which was particularly noticeable in a man who had been so active and at one time the best dancer at Court. He still indulged and even took the floor with the Queen, as graceful as ever. Essex had outshone them all; and it was the younger ones like Raleigh and Charles Blount who stood to gain from his disgrace.

Poor Hatton did not benefit long from the decline of Essex. He became more and more weak during the days that followed and before long retired to his house in Ely Place, where he suffered acutely from an internal disease and died by the end of that year.

The Queen was melancholy. She hated death, and no one was allowed to mention it in her hearing. It must have been sad for her to see her old friends dropping from the tree of life like so many overripe plums, riddled by insects and disease.

It made her turn more and more to the young.

When Frances gave birth to a son we called him Robert after his father. The Queen relented. Essex might come back to Court, but she did not wish to see his wife.

So the Queen and my son were good friends again. She kept him by her side; she danced with him; they laughed together and he delighted her with his frank conversation. They played cards until early morning, and it was said that she was restless when he was not beside her.

Oh yes, it was like the old pattern with Leicester but, alas, where Leicester had learned his lessons, Essex never would.

I had at last accepted that fact that the Queen would never forgive me for having married Leicester and that I should always be an outside observer of the events which were shaping our country. That was hard for a woman of my nature to accept; but I was not one to sit down and mope. I suppose like my son and daughter I would fight to the end. I always felt, though, that if only I could have once met the Queen and talked to her, we could have repressed our resentment and I could have amused her in the way I had so long ago; then we could have come to some understanding. I was no longer Lettice Dudley but Lettice Blount. True I had a young husband who adored me, and that might displease her. She would think I ought to be punished for what I had done. I wondered if she had heard rumors about my having helped Leicester out of this world. Surely not. She would never have let that rest.

But I did not give up hope. Essex told me that on those occasions when he broached the matter of my reinstatement at Court her looks grew stormy, she became formidable and refused to discuss it with him, turning from him and not speaking to him for the rest of the evening. She had intimated that this was one subject which even he must not mention.

"I'll have to go warily with her," he said. "But I'll do it in time."

I guessed that she had been even fiercer than he implied, since she had made him realize that his insistence could bring about his banishment from Court. But I knew my Robert. He would not let the matter rest. It was, however, a question of her will against his.

So there I was—no longer young but still attractive. I had my home in which I took a pride. My table was one of the best in the country. I was determined to rival those of the royal palaces and I hoped the Queen would hear of it. I would myself supervise the making of salads from the products of my own gardens; my wines were muscatel and malmsey and those from Greece and Italy, which were often laced with my own special spices. The kissing comfits served at my table were the daintiest and sweetest to be found. I occupied myself with the making of lotions and creams specially suited to my needs. They enhanced my beauty so that there were times when it seemed it glowed more brightly as I grew older. My clothes were noted for their elegance and style; they were of silk, damask, brocade, sarcenet and the incomparable beauty of my favorite velvet. They came in the most delightful colors, for with every year the dyers grew more expert in their trade. Peacock blue and popinjay green; maidenhair brown and gentian blue; poppy red and marigold yellow. ... I reveled in them all. My seamstresses worked constantly to beautify me and the result I must say—despising false modesty—was good.

I was a happy woman—apart from one great desire: to be received by the Queen. Being married to a husband much younger than myself helped to preserve my youth, and with a family who gave me so much affection—and among that family a son who was generally accepted to be the brightest star of the Court—I had good reason for contentment and must forget this need which overshadowed my life. I must forget the Queen, who was determined to punish me. I must take my life for what it was. I reminded myself that it was filled with excitement and my greatest delight was wrapped up in my son, who loved me devotedly and had made me the center of our family.

Why should I allow an aging and vindictive woman to come between me and my pleasure? I would forget her. Leicester had gone. This was a new life for me. I must be thankful for it and enjoy it.

But I could not forget her.

Even so my family affairs provided perpetual interest. Penelope was growing more and more dissatisfied with her marriage, although she had borne two more children to Lord Rich. She was having a love affair with Charles Blount, and they met constantly at my house. I did not feel I could criticize them. How could I— understanding full well their feelings for each other? Moreover if I had, they would have taken no notice of me. Charles was a most attractive man and Penelope told me that he would very much like her to leave Rich altogether and set up house with him.

I wondered what the Queen's reaction to that situation would be. I knew that she would blame me. Every time Essex displeased her by a display of arrogance she would comment that he had inherited that trait from his mother, which showed that her animosity to me persisted.

Much that happened to my son is common knowledge. His was the sort of life which is an open book for all to read. So many of his emotions were displayed to the lookers-on; and when Essex rode through the streets people came out of their houses to stare at him.

He was arrogant, I knew; and very ambitious, but in my heart I also knew that he lacked the very quality to use his talents. Leicester had had that; Burleigh had it in excess; Hatton, Heneage, they all had stepped with the greatest care; but my son, Robin, liked to skate where the ice was thinnest. I sometimes think there was in him an inborn desire to destroy himself.

He told me that he despaired of ever realizing his ambition at home. Burleigh's one thought was to advance his own son, Robert Cecil, and Burleigh held great influence with the Queen.

I was amazed that my son should have dreamed of taking over Burleigh's place in the State, which was of course the most important one of all. The Queen would never dismiss Burleigh. She might dote on her favorite of favorites, but she was always the Queen at heart and knew Burleigh's value. Often twinges of uneasiness would beset me when I was talking to my son, because he was fast believing that he was capable of leading the country. I, who loved him dearly, knew full well that even if his mental accomplishments had fitted him for that task, his temperament would have failed him.

During the few months he had lived in Burleigh's house, he had made the acquaintance of Burleigh's son, Robert like himself. But how different they were in appearance. Robert Cecil was very short; he had a slight curvature of the spine which the mode of dress at these times tended to exaggerate. He was very sensitive of his deformity. The Queen, who was fond of him and ready to advance Burleigh's son, aware of his undoubted brilliance; however, she helped to call attention to his disability by giving him one of the nicknames she loved to bestow on her favorites. He was her Little Elf.

With Burleigh firmly in his post and unlikely ever to be removed from it except by death, Essex believed that his best way of advancing himself was through glory in battle.

The Queen was, at this time, much concerned with events in France, where, on the assassination of Henri III, Henri of Navarre had taken the throne and was having difficulty in holding it. As Henri was a Huguenot and Catholic Spain was still considered a threat in spite of the defeat of the Armada, it was decided to send help to Henri.

Essex wanted to go to France.

The Queen refused permission, for which I was glad; but I was worried, knowing what he had done previously and believing that he was quite capable of doing the same again. He was clearly becoming convinced that, whatever he did, the Queen would forgive him.

He sulked and begged and would talk of nothing but his desire to go, and at length she allowed him to do so. He took with him my son Walter and, alas, I never saw Walter again, for he was killed in the fighting before Rouen.

I have not written much of Walter. He was the young one, the quiet one. The rest of my children all asserted themselves, calling for attention in some way. Walter was different. I fancy the others resembled me, and Walter his father. But this gentle, affectionate boy was beloved by all of us, although we were inclined to ignore him when he was with us, but how we missed him when he was not! I knew that Essex would be heartbroken, and particularly so because he had persuaded him to go out and fight with him. It had been Essex who wanted to go to war and Walter had always wanted to follow his elder brother, but Essex would remember that, had he stayed at home as I—and the Queen—had wished him to, Walter would never have met his death. Knowing Essex well, I could imagine that his melancholy would match my own.

I heard news of him. He was brave in battle. Of course he would be, with his reckless, fearless nature; he cherished his soldiers and lavished honors on them when, Burleigh pointed out to the Queen, he had no right to. We were very anxious about him because men who returned home spoke of his absolute recklessness and oblivion to danger and how even when he wanted to hunt, he never hesitated about venturing into enemy country.

The loss of Walter and my fears for Essex made me very nervous and I even thought of begging the Queen to receive me that I might implore her to bring him home. Perhaps if I went on such a mission and somehow was able to have it conveyed to her why I came, she would see me.

I did not have to go as far as that, for she, sharing my anxieties concerning him, recalled him.

He made excuses about returning and I thought he was going to defy her, but finally he obeyed her. I saw little of him though, for the Queen would have him at her side through the day and far into the night. I was surprised when she allowed him to return to the field of action. I suppose she could not resist his pleading.

So he went out again and the anxieties returned.

Frances visited me often, and we comforted each other. She was a gentle creature and she accepted Essex's wildness as she had Philip Sidney's passion for Penelope. There was a strength in her which contrasted oddly with her docility. She was a woman who had quickly learned to accept her fate with resignation, which was admirable, I supposed; and I thought of how I had raged against Leicester's absences and had revenged myself on him by taking a lover. Yet I could respect Frances's mildness and realized that it was a good crutch which carried her through the difficult periods of her life; but we are what we are, and I could never be like her.

Finally Essex came back unharmed. For four years he had stayed out of England.