My Enemy the Queen

The Road to the Scaffold

They were dangerous years. Although Essex rose high in the Queen's favor, I never knew a man so play with fire. He was my son after all. But I was continually reminding him of Leicester.

Once he said: "I wonder Christopher Blount does not object. You are always talking of Leicester as though he were a pattern of a man."

"For you, he could be," I said. "Remember that he kept the Queen's regard all his life."

Essex was impatient. He was not going to squirm and humble himself, he declared. The Queen, like everyone else, must take him as he was.

And it seemed she did. Oh, but he was surrounded by dangers. I knew Burleigh was against him now and determined to make the way clear for his son, but I was glad that Essex had struck up a friendship with the Bacon boys—Anthony and Francis. They were a clever pair and good for him, although they both suffered from resentment, fancying themselves both kept from high office by Burleigh.

Essex now had two more sons—Walter, after his sadly missed uncle, and Henry. He, alas, was a far from faithful husband. He was lusty and sensual and he could not live without women, and as he had never curbed his desires in any respect, it was natural that he should not in this. One woman was not enough for him, for his fancy strayed quickly, and being in the position he was, there was no dearth of young women ready to submit to him.

It was typical of him that, instead of choosing a mistress with care—someone whom he could visit secretly—he must become enamored of the Queen's maids of honor. There were at least four who were known to me. Elizabeth Southwell bore him a son who was known as Walter Devereux and that was a great scandal; then there were Lady Mary Howard and two girls named Russell and Brydges, all of whom were publicly humiliated by the Queen.

I was very apprehensive about his indiscreet behavior, because Elizabeth was particularly strict with her maids of honor, who were carefully taken from families selected by her—usually someone in the family had done her a service, and to take the girls was a reward. Mary Sidney was a good example of this, for she had been taken when her sister Ambrosia had died because the Queen was sorry for the family and Mary had, shortly afterwards and due to the Queen's efforts, made a brilliant marriage with the Earl of Pembroke. The parents of the girls were always delighted at the honor because they knew that the Queen would do her best to look after their daughters. If any of these girls married without her consent, she was furious; if she suspected any of what she called lewd behavior, she was even more incensed; and if their partner in disgrace should be any of her favorites, she would be wild with rage. Yet knowing this, Essex philandered, not only endangering his position at Court but causing great sorrow to his wife and mother.

I often wondered how long he would be able to steer himself safely through all the perils which he made no effort to avoid. Of course the Queen was old and clung more and more to the young; and when he was charming he was quite irresistible, as we all found.

Penelope had now left her husband and was living openly with her lover Charles Blount, who had become Lord Mountjoy on the death of his elder brother.

Penelope had never been a favorite with the Queen; she shared a lack of tact with her brother and of course the Queen would not accept from beautiful women what she did from handsome men. Moreover Penelope labored under the difficulty of being my daughter, and when the Queen heard that she had left her husband and was living with Mountjoy, while she was prepared to accept Mountjoy's departure from conventional behavior, for he was a good-looking young man, she did not apply the same leniency to Penelope, though not of her affection for Mountjoy, she did not forbid her to come to Court. .

Penelope and Essex were fast friends, and she, being of a somewhat domineering nature, was constantly trying to advise him. She was very sure of herself. She was known as one of the most beautiful women at Court, as I had been; and Philip Sidney's poems which extolled her charms increased her good opinion of herself. Mountjoy adored her, and as Essex thought very highly of her also, she was a woman who could not but be pleased with her position, particularly as she had rid herself of a distasteful husband simply by leaving him.

It so happened that Penelope was staying with the Warwicks at North Hall when messengers came with the news that the Queen was not far off. Essex knew that Elizabeth would be displeased to find his sister there and might humiliate her by refusing to see her. He rode out to meet the Queen—a fact which delighted her, but she soon realized that his reason for coming was to warn her that his sister was at North Hall and to ask her to receive her kindly.

Elizabeth made little comment and Essex, as sure of himself as ever, thought she was naturally giving him what he asked. His dismay was great when orders were given that Penelope was to stay in her chamber while the Queen was at North Hall.

Impulsive Essex could never bear to be thwarted. He was devoted to his family and was constantly trying to persuade the Queen to receive me. That she should treat his sister in this way was insupportable to him.

After she had supped he asked her if she would receive Penelope. He had believed she had promised him that she would, he said, and he was hurt and bewildered that she should break her word. This was no way to tackle the Queen and she replied sharply that she had no intention of allowing people to say she had received his sister merely to please him.

"Nay," he cried hotly, "you will not receive her to please that knave Raleigh." Then he had gone on to say that she would do a good deal to please Raleigh. She would disgrace him and his sister for her love of that adventuring churl.

The Queen told him to be quiet but he would not be. He let out a tirade of scorn about Raleigh. She was in awe of the fellow, he said. He himself could find little pleasure in serving a mistress who was afraid of a low fellow like that.

This was all the more foolish, for Raleigh was of the party, and even if he did not overhear what was said, others soon would report it to him, so he was making of Raleigh an enemy for life-even if he had not already done so.

But the Queen tired of his tantrums. She shouted at him: "Do not presume to address me thus. How dare you criticize others. As for your sister, she is another such as your mother, and there is a woman I would not have at my Court. You have inherited her faults, and that is enough for me to send you away from here."

"Then do so," he cried. "Nor would I stay here to listen to my family's being slandered. I have no desire to serve such a mistress. I will remove my sister from this roof without delay, and since you are afraid to displease that knave Raleigh and he wants me gone, I will go too."

"I am weary of you, you foolish boy," said the Queen coldly, and turned away.

Essex bowed, retired and went straight to Penelope's room. "We are leaving here immediately," he told her. "Prepare yourself."

Penelope was bewildered, but it was necessary, he said, because he had had a disagreement with the Queen and they were in danger.

He sent her back to her home with an escort of servants and declared he was going to Holland. He would be in time to join in the battle for Sluys and it might well be that he would fall. Never mind. Death was preferable to the service of such an unfair mistress, and he doubted not that she would consider herself well rid of him.

He then set out for Sandwich.

The next day, when the Queen asked for him, she heard that he was on his way to Holland. She sent a party after him to bring him back.

He was about to board a ship at Sandwich when they arrived, and at first he refused to return, but when he was told that if he did not they would take him back by force, he had to obey.

When he returned the Queen was delighted to see him. She scolded him and told him that he had been foolish and he was not going to leave Court without her permission.

Within a few days he was back in favor.

He had such good fortune, this wayward son of mine. If only he had taken advantage of it! Alas, it often seemed to me that he showed only contempt for the benefits showered on him. If ever a man tempted fate, that man was Essex.

One of his dearest wishes had been to get me reinstated at Court, for he knew how greatly I had desired this, and as Leicester had been unable to bring this about, I believe one of his reasons for wanting it was to achieve that which his stepfather had failed to.

It had always been a source of great distress to me that I could not be part of the Queen's circle. Leicester had been dead for ten years. Surely she could bear to see me now. I was a kinswoman; I was getting old; surely she could forget I had married her Sweet Robin.

I had given her her favorite man. Surely she must realize that but for me there could have been no Essex to disrupt and at the same time enchant her days. But she was a vindictive woman. My son was well aware of my feelings and had promised me that one day he would bring us together. He regarded it as a slight to himself that he could not persuade her to a reconciliation, and it was a challenge to his determination to enforce his will.

He was now acting as Secretary and she did not like him to be out of her sight. People realized that if they would please the Queen, they might be brought to her notice through this young man on whom she doted.

He came to Leicester House in a state of great excitement one day.

"Prepare yourself, my lady," he cried. "You are going to Court."

I could not believe it was possible. "Will she really see me?" I said.

"She has told me that she will be passing from her chamber to the Presence Room and, if you are in the Privy Gallery, she will see you as she passes through."

It would be a very formal meeting, but it would be a beginning and I was exultant. The long exile was over. Essex wanted the meeting and she could deny him nothing. She and I would be on civilized terms again. I remembered how in the old days I could often make her laugh, with some wry comment, some remark about people around us. We were old now; we could talk together, exchange reminiscences, let bygones be bygones.

I thought about her a good deal. I had seen her over the years, but never close. Riding on her palfry or in her carriage, she was remote, a great queen but still the woman who had defeated me. I wanted to be close to her, for only when I was near her could I feel alive again. I missed Leicester. Perhaps I had temporarily fallen out of love with him at the end but without him life had lost its savor. She could have put something back for me. We could have compensated each other for his loss. I had my young Christopher—a good, kind, devoted man who still marveled at his good fortune in marrying me; but I found myself constantly comparing him with Leicester—and what man could compare favorably with him! It was not Christopher's fault that I found him lacking. It was merely that I had been loved by the most dominating, exciting man of the age—and because she, the Queen, had loved him too, only now that I had lost him could I recapture that zest for life if she would take me into her circle once more-laugh with me, do battle with me—anything if she would but come back into my life.

I was overwhelmed with excitement at the prospect of going back to Court again. She meant so much in my life. She was part of me. I could never be unaware of her any more than she could of me. She was lost and lonely without Leicester as I was too. Even if I had deluded myself into believing that I had not loved him at the end, it made no difference now.

I wanted to talk to her—two women, too old for jealousy surely. I wanted to remember with her the early days when she loved and thought of marrying Robert. I wanted to hear from her lips how much she knew of the death of Robert's first wife. We should be so close. Our lives were entwined with that of Robert Dudley and it was to each other that we should tell our secrets.

I had not been so excited for a long time.

On the appointed day, I dressed with great care and restraint— not flamboyantly, but unassumingly, which was the manner I wished to convey. I must be humble, grateful, and show my deep pleasure in an unrestrained manner.

I went to the gallery and waited with a few others there. There were some who were surprised to see me and I noticed the discreet glances which were exchanged.

The minutes slipped by. She did not appear. There was a whisper in the gallery and more glances came my way. An hour had passed and still she had not come.

At length one of her pages came into the gallery. "Her Majesty will not be passing through the gallery today," he announced.

I felt sick with disappointment. I was sure that it was because she knew I was waiting there that she had not come.

Essex came to Leicester House later in the day.

He was distressed. "You did not see her, I know," he said. "I told her you had waited and had gone away disappointed, but she said she felt too unwell to leave her chamber, and she has promised that there shall be another time."

Well, it could be true.

A week later, Essex told me that he had so persisted that the Queen had said she would see me as she passed out of the palace to her coach. She was dining out, and it would be a beginning if I waited once more, and as she passed she would have a word with me. That was all I needed; then I could ask to come to Court, but until I had received that friendly word I was powerless.

Essex was suffering from one of his periodic bouts of fever and was in bed in his apartment at the palace, otherwise he would have accompanied the Queen and what would have made it easier for me.

However, I was no novice of Court ways, and once more dressed myself, as I thought, suitably, and taking a diamond worth about three hundred pounds from that store left to me after so much had been sold to pay Leicester's debts, I set out for the palace.

Once more I waited in the anteroom where others, who sought a passing word with her, were assembled. After a while I began to suspect that it would be the same as before, and how right I was proved to be. After a while the coach was taken away and I heard that the Queen had decided not to dine out that night.

Fuming with rage, I returned to Leicester House. I could see that she had no intention of receiving me. She was using the same treatment to me as she had given her suitors. One was supposed to go on hoping, go on trying and be prepared to meet with failure at every turn.

I heard from my son that when he had learned that she had decided not to dine out he had left his sickbed to go to her and implore her not to disappoint me again. She had, however, been adamant. She had made up her mind not to dine out and she would not do so. Essex sulked and returned to his bed with the remark that as no small request of his was worth consideration it would be better if he retired from Court.

He must have made some impression on her, for shortly afterwards he came with a message from the Queen. She would receive me privately.

This was triumph. How much better it would be for me to be able to talk to her, to speak of the past, to make a bid for her friendship, seated beside her perhaps. How different from a passing word!

I wore a gown of blue silk and an embroidered underskirt of a paler shade, a delicate lace ruff and a light gray velvet hat with a curling blue feather. I was becomingly dressed (for I could not give her the satisfaction of thinking I had lost my good looks) and at the same time discreetly so.

As I went into the palace I wondered whether she would find some excuse yet for turning me away. But no, this time I did come face to face with her.

It was a thrilling moment when I stood before her. I sank to my knees and remained there until I felt her hand on my shoulder and heard her bid me to rise.

I stood up and we took measure of each other. I knew she was aware of every detail of my looks and dress. I could not repress a satisfaction as I noticed how she had aged. Even the careful toilette, the subtle application of rouge, the red wig could not hide it completely. She was over sixty, but her slender figure and her upright carriage did a great deal for her. Her neck showed the strains of age but her bosom was as white and firm as ever. She was in the white which she loved—a gown lined with scarlet and decorated with pearls. I wondered if she had given as much care to her appearance as I had. When she lifted her hand, the long hanging sleeve fell back disclosing the scarlet lining. She had always used her hands to effect. Beautifully white and still perfectly shaped, they showed little sign of age; they looked delicate, weighed down with the jewels which glittered on them.

She laid her hands on my shoulders and kissed me. I felt the blood rush to my cheeks, and I was glad, for she took it as emotion. But it was just plain triumph. I was back.

"It is a long time, Cousin," she said.

"Your Majesty, it has seemed an age."

"More than ten years since he left me." Her face puckered and I thought she was going to weep. "It is as though he is with me still. I still never grow accustomed to being without him."

She was, of course, talking about Leicester. I should have liked to tell her that I shared her feelings, but that would have seemed quite false since I had been married to Christopher for the last ten years.

"How did he die?" she asked. Obviously she wanted to hear again what she must know already.

"In his sleep. It was a peaceful ending."

"I am glad. I still read his letters. I can see him so well ... when he was but a boy." She shook her head sadly. "There was never one like him. There were rumors at his death."

"There were always rumors about him."

"He was closer to me than any. My Eyes ... indeed my eyes."

"I trust my son is a comfort to you, Madam."

"Ah, wild Robin." She laughed affectionately. "A charming boy. I love him well."

"Then I am happy to have borne him for your service."

She looked at me sharply. "It would seem that fate has played a trick on us, Lettice," she said. "Those two ... Leicester and Essex ... the two of them, close to us both. You find your Blount a good husband?"

"I thank God for him, Madam."

"You quickly married after Leicester's death."

"I was lonely."

She nodded. "That girl of yours should take a care or two."

"Your Majesty refers to Lady Rich?"

"Lady Rich ... or Lady Mountjoy ... I know not by which name we should call her."

"She is Lady Rich, Your Majesty."

"She is like her brother. They have too high an opinion of themselves."

"Life has given them a great deal."

"Yes, with Sidney moping over the girl and now Mountjoy stepping out of line for her."

"It tends to raise their opinion of themselves—as Your Majesty's kindness to Essex has shown."

She laughed. Then she talked about the old days, of dear Philip Sidney, who had been such a hero, and the tragedies of the last years. It seemed particularly cruel to her that after the defeat of the Armada when it was as though a great burden had been lifted from her shoulders—though another had been laid on them since by the same enemies—she should have lost the one with whom she could have shared her triumphs.

Then she talked of him, how they had been together in the Tower, how he had come to her when her sister had died... . "The first to rush to me, with the offer of his fortune... ."

And his hand, I thought. Sweet Robin, the Queen's Eyes, how high his hopes had been in those days. She took me along with her, making me see again the handsome young man—incomparable, she called him. I think she had completely forgotten the gouty, bleary old man he had become.

And she seemed to forget me too, as she rambled on, living the past with Leicester.

Then suddenly she looked at me coldly. "Well, Lettice," she said, "we have met at last. Essex has won the day."

She gave me her hand to kiss, and I was dismissed.

I left the palace in a state of triumph.

A week passed. There was no summons from the Queen. I could not wait to see my son. I told him what had happened, that the Queen had talked with me and had been most friendly, even cousinly. Yet I had received no further invitation to go to Court.

Essex mentioned the matter to her, telling her how delighted I was to have been received in private. Now what I earnestly wished for was to be allowed to kiss her hand in public.

He looked at me sadly.

"She is a most perverse old woman," he cried; and I was terrified that the servants would hear. "She says that she promised me she would see you and this she has done. And that, she tells me, is an end of the matter."

"You can't mean that she won't receive me again!" I cried, aghast.

"She says it is the same as it ever was. She does not wish to receive you at Court. She has nothing to say to you. You have shown yourself to be no friend of hers and she has no wish to see you."

So there I was, back in the same position. That brief meeting had meant nothing. It might just as well never have taken place. I pictured her laughing with her women, perhaps commenting on the meeting.

"The She-Wolf thought she was coming back, did she? Ha! She will have to change her views... ."

Then she would look in her mirror and see herself not as she was then, but as a young woman newly come to the throne, in all the splendor of her glorious youth and beside her her Sweet Robin, with whom none could compare.

Then to soothe her grief and add balm to her wounds which he had given her by preferring me, she would laugh afresh at my dismay at having had my hopes raised and dashed so that she could add to my humiliation.

I am now approaching in these memories of mine that time which is the most tragic in my life, for I believe, looking back, that that terrible scene between Essex and the Queen was the beginning of disaster for him. I am sure she never forgave him for it, any more than she ever forgave me for marrying Leicester. Faithful as she was to her friends, one could say she was equally faithful to her enemies, and while she remembered an act of friendship and rewarded it again and again, she could never forget an act of disloyalty.

I know that Essex gave great provocation. His close friend, the Earl of Southampton, was at this time in disgrace. Elizabeth Vernon, one of the maids of honor and a niece of my first husband, Walter Devereux, had become Southampton's mistress, and Essex had helped them to make a secret marriage. When the Queen heard of it, Essex boldly declared that he saw not why men should not marry as they wished and still serve the Queen. This displeased her.

Meanwhile Elizabeth was seeking to make a peace treaty with Spain. Her hatred of war was as strong as ever, and she often said it should be undertaken only in cases of dire emergency (as at the time when the Armada was threatening to attack) and at all other times every step should be taken to avoid it.

Essex took a different view and wanted to put a stop to negotiations for peace. He eventually won the day with the Council, to the chagrin of Lord Burleigh and Robert Cecil.

Essex started to work against his enemies with that furious energy which was typical of him. My brother William, who, now that my father was dead, had inherited the title, tried to dissuade him from his vehemence. Christopher worshiped Essex blindly and, although in the first place I had been glad of this accord between them, I now wished Christopher would show a little discrimination. Mountjoy warned him, so did Francis Bacon, who remembered what a good friend Essex had always been to him; but in his headstrong way Essex would listen to nobody.

The Queen disapproved strongly of what he was doing and showed this in her manner towards him. It was a hot July day when matters came to a climax, and I think that the first irrevocable step towards disaster was taken then, for Essex did that which the Queen would never tolerate and never lightly forgive: he assaulted her dignity and in fact came near to assaulting her person.

Ireland was a matter of great contention, as it always had been, and the Queen was considering sending a lord deputy there.

She said she trusted Sir William Knollys. He was a kinsman on whose loyalty she could rely. His father had served her well all his life and Sir William was the man she would propose for the task.

Essex cried out: "It will not do. The man for that task is George Carew." Carew had taken part in the expedition to Cadiz and to the Azores. He had been in Ireland and had knowledge of affairs there. Moreover he was a close friend of the Cecils and if he could be exiled from the Court, all the better from Essex's point of view.

"I say William Knollys," said the Queen.

"You are wrong, Madam," retorted Essex. "My uncle is quite unsuited. Carew is your man."

No one ever spoke to the Queen in that manner. No one told her she was wrong. If her ministers felt strongly about something, she was gently and subtly persuaded to change her view. Burleigh, Cecil and the rest were adept at this maneuver. But to say: "Madam, you are wrong" so defiantly was something which could not be tolerated—even from Essex.

When the Queen ignored him with a gesture which implied that the suggestion of this impertinent young man was of no importance, a sudden rage seized Essex. She had insulted him in public. She was telling him that what he said was insignificant. For a moment his temper got the better of his common sense. He turned his back on the Queen.

She had accepted his outburst—for which he would no doubt be reprimanded later and warned never to do such a thing again— but this was a deliberate insult.

She sprang at him and boxed him soundly on the ears, telling him to go and be hanged.

Essex, blinded by rage, put his hand to his sword hilt, and would have drawn it, if he had not been immediately seized. As he was hustled out of the chamber he shouted that he would not have taken such an insult from Henry VIII. No one before had ever witnessed such a scene between a monarch and a subject.

Penelope hurried to Leicester House to talk it over with Christopher and me, and my brother William joined us with Mountjoy.

William was of the opinion that it must be the end of Essex, but Penelope would not have it.

"She is too fond of him. She will forgive him. Where has he gone?"

"To the country," Christopher told her.

"He should stay there for a while until this blows over," said William. "That's if ever it does."

I was worried indeed, for I did not see how such an insult could be forgiven. To have turned his back on the Queen was bad enough but to have drawn his sword on her was outrageous and could be treason—and he had many enemies.

We were all plunged into gloom and I was not sure that Penelope really believed in the optimism she expressed.

Everyone was talking about the decline of Essex until a matter of great importance ousted my son from the public eye. Lord Burleigh, who was seventy-eight and had been ailing for some time, was dying. He had suffered terribly with his teeth (an affliction with which the Queen was in great sympathy since she suffered likewise) and of course he had been subject to strain throughout his life. With the meticulous care he had given to state affairs, he set his personal ones in order. I heard that he took to his bed, called his children to him, blessed them and the Queen, and gave his will to his steward; then quietly he slipped away.

When the news was taken to the Queen she was inconsolable. She went to her own chamber and wept; and for some time afterwards when his name was mentioned her eyes would fill with tears. Not since the death of Leicester had she shown such emotion.

He had died in his house in the Strand and his body was taken to Stamford Baron for burial, but his obsequies were performed in Westminster Abbey. Essex came up from the country, in black mourning, to attend these and it was noticed that none of the mourners looked as melancholy as he did.

Afterwards he was at Leicester House and my brother William Knollys was there with Christopher and Mountjoy. Although Essex had opposed William's appointment, my brother realized that the family fortunes were tied up in my son. Moreover, Essex had a charm which very often overcame the resentment of those whom he had slighted or wronged in some way. Like my father, William was a farsighted man and he was not one to let a momentary upset affect the future. So he was as eager as the rest of us to see Essex back in favor.

He said: "Now is the time for you to go to the Queen. She is broken down with grief. It is for you to go and comfort her."

"She is out of humor with me," grumbled Essex, "but no more so than I with her."

I retorted: "She has insulted me, but if she were to ask me to come to Court tomorrow, most willingly would I go. I beg of you, do not play the fool, my son. One does not consider personal affronts when dealing with monarchs."

William flashed a look of warning at me. My brother was like our father—a very cautious man.

"The more you stay away, the more she will harden towards you," Mountjoy warned Essex.

"She will have no thought for me now," retorted Essex. "We shall hear what a good man Burleigh was. How he never crossed her. Differences of opinion they had, but he never forgot he was her subject. Nay, I have no intention of going to Court to listen to a panegyric on the virtues of Burleigh."

In vain did we try to make him realize what would be good for him. His stubborn pride stood in his way. She must ask him to come, and then he might consider going.

He was unrealistic, this son of mine, and I trembled for him.

Mountjoy told me that the Queen had ceased to think of Essex, so deep in mourning was she for Burleigh. She would talk to those about her of that good man—her Spirit, she still called him. "He never failed me," she said. She talked of how there had been a rivalry between those two dear men who had meant so much to her —Leicester and Burleigh. "I could not have done without either of them," she said, and wept again. Her Eyes, her Spirit, both lost to her. How different were the men of this age! Then she would talk about the goodness of Burleigh. He had been a good father to his children. Look how he had advanced Robert, her Little Elf. Of course, Robert was a clever man. Burleigh had known that. He had not tried to bring his eldest—now Lord Burleigh—to her notice because he had known he had not the wit to serve her. No, it was Robert the hunchback, the splayfooted Little Elf, who was the genius. And his good father had known it. Oh, how she missed her dear, dear Spirit.

And so it went on without a regret for the absence of Essex.

"I cannot compete with a dead man in the heart of a sentimental woman," he said.

His utterances were becoming more and more reckless. We trembled for him—all of us. Even Penelope, who was constantly urging him to what I thought of sometimes as even greater recklessness.

However, we all agreed that he should try for a reconciliation with the Queen.

An opportunity came when the Council was meeting and he, as a member of it, was to appear. His haughty reply was that he would not do so until he had first been granted an interview with the Queen. The Queen ignored this, and he did not attend, but went down to Wanstead to sulk.

There was bad news from Ireland, where the Irish Earl of Tyrone was in rebellion and was threatening the English, not only in Ulster, but in other provinces of Ireland. The English commander, Sir Henry Bagnal, had been completely routed, and it seemed that if immediate action were not taken, Ireland would be lost.

Essex came up from Wanstead with all speed and attended the meeting of the Council. He had special knowledge of the Irish question, he declared, and because of the danger, he asked the Queen to see him. She refused and he fumed with fury.

His rage and frustration had their effect on him. Penelope came to tell me that she feared he was ill. One of those intermittent fevers had attacked him, and in his delirium, he raved against the Queen. Christopher and I, with Penelope, went down to Wanstead to nurse him and protect him from those who were eager to report those ravings to Elizabeth.

How I loved him! Perhaps more than ever at this time. He was so young, so vulnerable; and all my maternal feelings rose in anguish to see him so. I shall never forget the sight of him, his beautiful hair unkempt and the wild look in his eyes. I felt furious with the Queen, whose treatment of him had brought him to this state, while, at the same time, in my heart I knew he had brought it on himself.

Would he never learn? I wondered. How I wished that Leicester were alive so that he could have talked with him. But when had Essex ever listened to anyone? My brother William and Mountjoy—whose relationship with Penelope made him like a son to me—were constantly trying to warn him. As for Christopher he seemed to be possessed of such adulation for my son that anything he did was right.

The Queen, hearing that Essex was ill, changed her attitude towards him. Perhaps the death of Burleigh had made her feel lonely —who shall say? They were all dead now—Eyes, Spirit, Moor and Bellwether. There was still one left to love—the wayward, reckless but fascinating son of her old enemy.

She sent her physician to see him with orders that she was to hear immediately of his condition; and as soon as he was well enough to travel—but not before—he was to come to her.

It was reconciliation, and he recovered quickly. Christopher was delighted. "None could resist him for long," he said. But my sober brother William was less euphoric.

Essex came to see me after he had been received by the Queen. She had been warm and expressed her pleasure to have him back at Court. He believed that everything was as it had been, and he was secretly elated that he could do that which no other would have dared and still regain her favor. At the Twelfth Night ball everyone noticed how he danced with the Queen and how delighted she seemed because he was with her.

Yet I was thoughtful, and I railed against her—in secret of course—for keeping me out.

Essex said he was going to Ireland. He was going to teach Tyrone a lesson. Nobody knew as much about the Irish question as he did, and he reckoned that his father had been ill served by his country. He had given all to the cause, and because he had died before he succeeded, he was considered a failure. He was going to avenge that. The Earl of Essex had died in Ireland and was said to have failed; now Essex's son was going to continue his father's good work; he was going to succeed and the name of Essex would be remembered ever after with reverence whenever Ireland was mentioned.

This was all very grand. The Queen, with one of her sly comments, reminded him that, since he was so concerned with his father's affairs, there were some debts of his which were still unsettled.

This reference to my first husband's debts sent a tremor of dismay through the family, and I was afraid that I might be called upon to meet them. Essex declared that if the Queen persisted in this rapacious manner—after all he had done for her—he would leave Court forever. This was wild talk, for he knew as well as any that his only hope of future advancement was through the Court.

The Queen must have cared deeply for him because the matter was dropped and no more heard of it, and, after some reluctance, she gave Essex permission to go to Ireland and command the army there.

He was flushed with triumph. He came to Leicester House and told us of his plans. Christopher listened to him intently with that adoration in his eyes which he had once shown for me.

I said: "You want to go with him, do you not?"

"I will take you, Christopher," added Essex.

My poor young husband! He could not hide from me where his inclination lay, though he tried to. How different from Leicester! It would never have occurred to him to turn from what he might desire or what could be advantageous to him. Oddly enough I was inclined to despise Christopher for his weakness.

"You should go," I told him.

"But how could I leave you ... ?"

"I am perfectly capable of looking after myself. Go with Rob. The experience will be good for you. Is that not so, Rob?"

Essex said it would be good for himself to have those about him whom he could trust.

"Then it is settled," I added.

Christopher was clearly relieved. Our marriage had been happy, but I had had enough of it. I was nearly sixty years old and at times he seemed too young to interest me.

In March of that year—the last of the century—my son, with my husband, marched out of London. The people came into the streets to see him pass, and I must say that he looked magnificent. He was going to subdue the Irish; he was going to bring peace and glory to England; there was something godlike about him, and it was small wonder that the Queen loved him.

Unfortunately when the cavalcade reached Islington, a violent thunderstorm broke and the riders were drenched with the rain. The lightning frightened the householders into their homes where they crouched in terror, it was said, seeing in this sudden violent storm some evil omen.

I laughed at this superstition, but later even I began to wonder.

Everyone knows now of the disastrous results of that campaign. How much happier we should have all been if Essex had not undertaken it. Essex, himself, soon realized the magnitude of his task. The Irish nobility were against him, so were the priests, who held great sway over the people. He wrote to the Queen telling her that to subdue the Irish was going to be the most costly operation of her reign. There must be a strong English army, and as the Irish nobility were not averse to a little bribery, perhaps this would be the best way of bringing them to her cause.

There was an argument between the Queen and Essex about the Earl of Southampton, whom she had not forgiven for having made Elizabeth Vernon pregnant, even though he had made amends by marrying her. Essex and Southampton were close friends and Essex had made Southampton his Master of Horse in the campaign—an appointment of which the Queen did not approve. She ordered Southampton to be removed from the post and this Essex was bold enough to refuse to do.

I was growing more and more apprehensive as this news reached me, not only about the growing resentment of the Queen, but the danger in which both my husband and son had placed themselves.

Penelope was always the first to hear the news and she kept me informed of what was going on. I was comforted too to have the company of my daughter Dorothy and her children. Her first husband, Sir Thomas Perrot, whom she had married so romantically, was now dead and she was married to Henry Percy, the Earl of Northumberland. This marriage, however, was not turning out well, and she was glad to come to me; and we talked sometimes of the trials and pitfalls of married life.

It seemed to me that my family was not very successful in marriage. Frances, at any rate, loved Essex. It was strange that, no matter how badly he behaved, he seemed to bind people to him. His infidelities were common knowledge, and sometimes I think he indulged in them partly to spite the Queen. His feeling towards her was strange; he loved her in a certain way. Compared with all other women, she was supreme, and it was not only the fact that she was the sovereign. I myself felt that power in her; it was almost mystic. Was it not a fact that since she had made it clear that she had no intention of taking me back into her circle, life had lost its savor? Did she know this? Perhaps. I was a proud woman and yet I had made a great effort to please her. Was she laughing to herself, telling herself that her revenge was complete? She had won the last battle; she was revenged on me—the commoner who had dared become her rival and who had scored great victories over her.

Well, that was my family. Essex was philandering with several mistresses, and Penelope was living openly with Lord Mountjoy. She had even borne him a child who had been christened Mount-joy, and she was pregnant with another. Lord Rich made no attempt to divorce her as yet, and I supposed this was due to Essex's influence at Court. Had my youngest Walter lived he would have been the quiet one, the one who lived respectably with his family. But, alas, he was gone.

It was when Essex had a meeting with the rebel Tyrone and made terms with him that the storm broke. The Queen was furious that Essex had dared make terms with an enemy without first consulting her. He would do well to take care, she declared.

Essex then returned to England. How thoughtless he was! How reckless! When I look back I can see his walking carelessly step by step towards disaster. If only he would have listened to my warnings!

He reached Nonsuch Palace at ten in the morning, an hour when the Queen would be at her toilette. I think he must have been really afraid then. All his boasting about subduing Ireland was proving to be premature. He knew that his enemies at home surrounded the Queen and that they would be eager for his fall. He would let none deter him. He had to see the Queen immediately, before any could attempt to distort the facts and turn her against him. He was the great Essex, and if he wished to see the Queen at any hour he would do so.

How little he understood women!

In spite of my fears for him, I could not help laughing as I visualized that scene. A startled Elizabeth, recently risen from her bed, surrounded only by those women who were allowed to share the very intimate ceremony of her toilette.

A woman of sixty-seven does not want to be seen by a youthful admirer at such times. Essex told me afterwards that he scarcely recognized her. She was robbed of everything but her royalty. Her gray hair hung about her face, and no rouge gave the bloom to her cheeks and the sparkle to her eyes which courtiers were accustomed to see.

And there before her stood Essex—himself muddy from his journey, for he had not stopped to wash or change his clothes.

She was, of course, magnificent, as she would be in any circumstances. She gave no sign that she was not adorned, with painted face, wig, ruff and fine gown. She gave him her hand to kiss and said she would see him later.

He came to me in triumph. She was his to command, he told me. He had burst into her chamber and seen her in a state of undress as, he had already heard it said, no man had seen her before. Yet she had smiled at him most graciously.

"By God, she is an old woman. I did not know how old until I saw her this day."

I shook my head. I knew what she would be thinking. He had seen her in that state. I could picture her demanding a minor, and the misery in her heart when the reflection looked back at her. Perhaps for once she looked at herself as she really was and she could not in that moment, surely, pretend that she was as fresh as the young girl who had romped with Admiral Seymour and who had dallied with Robert Dudley in the Tower. They were gone, and she was left to cling desperately to that image of her youth which Essex had shattered that morning at Nonsuch. I did not believe she would easily forget that.

I begged him to go very carefully, but when she saw him again she was very gracious.

At dinner he was joined by his friends, among them both Mountjoy and Lord Rich, for neither of these two, in their friendship for Essex, bore any resentment towards each other—one being Essex's sister's lover, the other her husband. Raleigh, I heard, dined apart from them with his friends such as Lord Grey and the Earl of Shrewsbury—formidable enemies.

Later that day Essex was summoned to the Queen, who was no longer friendly. She was annoyed that he had left Ireland without her permission and she said his conduct there had been treasonable.

He was bewildered. She had seemed kind enough to him and had been gracious when he had burst into her bedchamber. Poor Essex, sometimes I think he was the most obtuse man I ever knew. Though it is true enough that many men can be said to be so concerning the working of the female mind.

I could picture that interview. She would be seeing not the glittering figure who at that time was reflected in the mirror of the Presence Chamber, but a haggard old woman, not long risen from her bed, stripped of her adornments, her gray hair hanging about her face. Essex had seen that and she could not forgive him for it.

He was told he must remain in his chamber. He was a prisoner.

Mountjoy came to me in great dismay to report that Essex had been judged guilty of disobeying the Queen. He had left Ireland against her wishes and had boldly forced his way into her bedchamber. The Queen could not tolerate such conduct. He was to be sent to York House and there he would remain until the Queen decided what should be done.

"The Court is going to Richmond," said Mountjoy. "I cannot understand it. She seems not to care for him any more. She has turned against him."

My heart sank with foreboding. My beloved son had gone too far at last. Yet I could understand her. She could no longer bear near her a man who had seen her as the old woman she was. I had always known that she was the vainest woman in her kingdom and that she lived in a dream where she was as beautiful as her sycophantic courtiers proclaimed her to be.

Essex had disobeyed her. He had made havoc of the Irish campaign. All that could have been forgiven. But having torn the mask of disbelief from her eyes, having looked on that which no man was intended to see, he had committed the unforgivable sin.

We were anxious about him. He was very sick. The dysentery which had attacked him in Ireland—and which those who did not believe Leicester had killed his father were sure had been the end of him—persisted. He could not eat; he could not sleep. We had this news from those who attended him, for we were not allowed to go to him.

Christopher returned in great haste to England. He came to me at once and I was glad to see him safe. But there could be no great joy in our reunion for both of us could feel very little but fear for Essex.

We were all terrified that he would be sent to the Tower.

Mountjoy was constantly at Leicester House. I knew that Essex had been, for some time, in correspondence with the King of Scotland, and Mountjoy and Penelope with him, to assure that monarch that they were in favor of his inheriting the throne on the death of the Queen. I had always felt this correspondence to be dangerous, for if the letters had fallen into the hands of the Queen she and others would have construed them as treason. Leicester would never have been so careless. I thought of those occasions when he had found himself in risky situations and how dexterously he had always made sure to cover his tracks. If only my son would listen to me; if only he would profit from what I had to tell him! But what was the use? It was not his nature to listen, nor would he have practiced caution if he had.

Now Mountjoy was making plans for Essex to escape from York House and go to France. Southampton, on whose account Essex had incurred the Queen's wrath, declared he would go with him.

Essex, however, scornfully—and wisely for once—refused to run away.

Poor Frances was in great distress. She wanted to be with him but he would not have her. In desperation she went to Court to sue for the Queen's clemency.

Essex's wife, who was disliked by the Queen, though not as fiercely as I was, of course, was the last person who should have attempted to plead with her, although certainly I, his mother, would have been even more unwelcome. But of course these young people didn't know Elizabeth as I did. They would have laughed to scorn my certainty that Essex's present disgrace was in some measure due to the fact that he had burst into her bedchamber and seen her unadorned.

Frances was naturally sent away with orders not to come to Court again.

My son's case was tried at the Star Chamber. The accusation was that he had, at great cost, been given the forces he had demanded; he had disobeyed instructions and returned to England without permission; he had entered into conference with the traitor Tyrone and made terms which were not fit to be listened to.

This was the fall of Essex. A few days later his household was broken up and his servants told to look elsewhere for masters whom they could serve. He had become so ill that we despaired of his life.

I believed that the Queen's conscience would smite her. She had once loved him well and I knew how faithful she was in her affections.

"Is he really as ill as you tell me he is?" she asked Mountjoy, who assured her that he was.

She said: "I will send my doctors to him."

Mountjoy answered: "It is not doctors he needs, Madam. But kind words from Your Majesty."

At this she sent him some broth from her own kitchens with a message that she would consider visiting him.

During those early days of December we really thought he was dying. He was prayed for in the churches, a fact which irritated the Queen because permission had not been asked of her that this should be done.

She said that his wife might visit him and tend him; then she sent for Penelope and Dorothy and received them kindly.

"Your brother is a much misguided man," she said to them. "I understand well your grief and I share it."

I often think it might have been better if Essex had died then, but when he saw Frances at his bedside, and understood that the Queen had given her permission to come to him and when he heard that Penelope and Dorothy had been received by the Queen, he began to be hopeful, and hope was the best medicine he could have had.

I was not allowed to see him, but Frances came to tell me that his health was improving and that he was planning to send the Queen a New Year's gift.

I thought of all the elaborate New Year's gifts Leicester had bestowed on her and how I had had to sell my treasures to pay for these. However, it was a good thing to send the gift, and I was eager to know how it was received.

It was neither accepted nor rejected.

It was pathetic to see the effect on him when he heard that his gift had not been rejected. He rose from his bed and in a few days was walking about. He looked better every day.

Frances, knowing how anxious I was, sent frequent messages. I would sit at my window waiting for them and thinking of the Queen, who would be anxious too, for she did love him. And I had seen with Leicester that she was capable of deep feelings. Yet she would not allow me, his mother, to go to him. She was almost as jealous of his love for me as she had been of Leicester's.

I heard, in due course, the alarming news that the Queen had sent his gift back to him. It was only when she feared his life was in danger that she relented.

Now that he was no longer sick, he must continue to feel the weight of her anger. So, though recovered from his illness, he was in equal danger from the Queen and her enemies.

Fate seemed determined to rain blow after blow on my poor boy. I wished that Leicester were living. He would have been able to advise and plead Essex's cause with the Queen. It was heartbreaking to see this proud man dejected, almost—though not quite—accepting defeat. Christopher was of little use. Although we had been married so long, he seemed the boy he had been at that time when his youth had appealed to me. Now I longed for maturity. I thought constantly and longingly of Leicester. Essex was a hero to Christopher; he could see no wrong in him; he believed that everything that had brought him to this pass was due to ill fortune and his enemies. He could not see that Essex's greatest enemy was himself, and that fortune will not keep smiling on one who abuses her.

Events were moving to a swift and terrifying climax. There was a great deal of talk about a book which had been written by Sir John Hayward. When I read it, I could see how dangerous it was at such a time, for it dealt with the deposition of Richard II and the accession of Henry IV, the implication being that if a monarch were unworthy to rule, it was justifiable for the next in succession to take the throne. It was most unfortunate that Hayward had dedicated this book to the Earl of Essex.

I could see how Essex's enemies, such as Raleigh, would seize on this and use it against him. I could hear their telling the Queen that the book implied that she was unfit to rule. As it had been dedicated to Essex, had he had a hand in writing it? Did the Queen know that Essex, with his sister Lady Rich, had been in correspondence with the King of Scotland?

The book was withdrawn and Hayward imprisoned, and the Queen remarked that he might not be the author but was pretending to be in order to shield some mischievous person.

Penelope and I would sit together, talking of these matters until we slept for very exhaustion, but we arrived at no conclusion and could see no end to the problem.

Mountjoy was in Ireland, succeeding where Essex had failed, and Penelope reminded me that Essex had said Mountjoy would be no good for the task, being too literary minded and caring more for books than battles. How wrong he had been! Indeed, had my poor Essex ever been right?

He was in debt, for the Queen had refused to renew the license on the farm of sweet wines which she had bestowed on him; and on this he was relying to pay his creditors. It seemed his fortunes could not be lower—but of course they could.

He had never been able to see himself clearly. In his opinion he was ten feet high and other men pygmies. I realized during those terrible days that I loved him as I loved no one else—since that time when I had been obsessed by Leicester. This was a different kind of love, though. When Leicester had coarsened and neglected me for Elizabeth, I had fallen out of love with him. I could never stop loving Essex.

He was in Essex House now and all sorts of people were congregating there. It was beginning to be known as the meeting place for malcontents. Southampton was constantly with him, and he was one of those who were out of favor with the Queen. All men and women who were disgruntled, who believed that they had not received their dues, gathered together and murmured against the Queen and her ministers.

Oh, my reckless, thoughtless son! In an access of rage against the Queen, in his anguish for lost favor, he shouted in the hearing of several that he could not trust her, that her conditions were as crooked as her carcass.

I wished that I could have reached him. I wanted to tell him that John Stubbs had lost his right hand, not because he had written against the Queen's marriage, but because he had said she was too old for childbearing. But it would have been useless. That remark could take him to the scaffold, I knew, if ever his steps should be turned that way; and of course he was rushing headlong towards it.

His great rival, Sir Walter Raleigh, seized on those words. I could imagine how they would be slipped into the Queen's ear. She would hate him the more because once she had loved him. She would still be haunted by the scene when he had slipped into her bedchamber and discovered a gray, old woman.

The rest of the story is well known, how the plot was made that he and others should seize Whitehall, insist on an interview with Elizabeth, force her to dismiss her present ministers and summon a new parliament.

It probably sounded simple when they planned it. How different it was to put it into action. Christopher was secretive, so I knew that something was afoot. I saw little of him during those days because he was constantly at Essex House. I learned afterwards that Essex was expecting envoys from the King of Scotland, in which case he promised himself he would have good reason for rising and hoping for help from the Scottish King.

It was natural that all these happenings at Essex House attracted attention. Essex's spies discovered that there was a plot afoot—with Raleigh at the head of it—to capture him, perhaps kill him, and in any case get him into the Tower. Whenever my son had ridden through the streets of London, people had come out to watch him and to cheer him. He had always been an object of interest and that charm of his had been a source of fascination. He believed now that the city would be for him, and if he rode out, calling the people to rally round him that he might right his wrongs and theirs, they would follow him.

On a Saturday night several of his followers went to the Globe Theatre and bribed the players there to perform Shakespeare's Richard II, so that people might see that it was possible to depose a monarch.

I was so alarmed that I asked my brother William to come to, me without delay. He was as uneasy as I was.

"What is he trying to do?" he demanded. "Does he not know he is risking his head."

"William," I cried. "I beg of you, go to Essex House. See him. Try to make him listen to reason."

But of course Essex never had listened to reason. William went to Essex House. By that time some three hundred people were there—hotheads, fanatics, all of them.

William demanded an interview with his nephew, but Essex refused it, and because William would not go away he was hustled into the house and shut into the guards' room.

Then Essex did the foolhardy thing. He marched out into the streets with two hundred of his followers—my poor misguided Christopher among them.

Oh, the folly of it—the childish stupidity!

I feel sickened even now when I think of that brave, foolish boy, riding through the streets of London, with his inadequately armed men behind him, shouting to the citizens to join him. I could imagine their blank dismay as these worthy people hastily turned away and went into their houses. Why should they rebel against a Queen who had brought prosperity to them, who had triumphantly saved them from destruction by Spain—all because she had fallen out with one of her favorites?

The call of Rebellion went up, and in London and the neighborhood men were called on to defend the Queen and the country, and a force was quickly mustered against Essex. There was little fighting but enough for several to be killed. My Christopher was gored in the face by a halberd and fell from his horse so that he was left to be captured, while Essex retreated and managed to reach Essex House, where he quickly burned letters from the King of Scotland and any which he thought might implicate his friends.

It was night when they came to take him.

I was so angry. His friend Francis Bacon, whom he had helped so much, had spoken for the prosecution. When I thought of all Essex had done for Bacon I raved to Penelope and called him "False friend and traitor!"

Penelope shook her head. Bacon had been called upon to make a choice. He had to weigh up his obligations to the Queen and to Essex. Of course, said Penelope, he must choose the Queen.

"Essex would have chosen his friend," I pointed out.

"Yes, dear Mother," she replied, "but look to what his acts have brought him."

I knew my son was doomed.

Yet there was one bright hope to which I clung: The Queen had loved him, and I could remind myself how again and again she had forgiven Leicester. But Leicester had never raised an armed rebellion against her. What excuse could there be for Essex? I had to be reasonable and admit that there was none.

He was found guilty, as I had known he would be, and sentenced to death—and poor Christopher with him. I was bewildered and desolate, for I feared that I should shortly be deprived of a husband and a son.

It was a nightmare into which I had strayed. She could not do it. Surely she could not do it. But why not? Those about her would assure her that she must. Raleigh—always his enemy-Cecil, Lord Grey, all of them would explain to her that she had no alternative. Yet she was a woman of strong feelings. When she loved she loved deeply, and she had surely loved him. Next to Leicester he had been the most important man in her life.

What if Leicester had done what Essex had dared? But he never would have. Leicester was no fool. Poor Essex, his was a career littered with suicidal actions, and now there was nothing that could save him.

Or was there?

My husband and my son were condemned to death. I was her kinswoman. Would she have a little pity for me? If only she would see me.

I thought she might see Frances. She had always had an affection for her Moor, and this was his daughter. Moreover, Essex had been notoriously unfaithful to Frances, and the Queen would have pitied her for that, and that would surely have softened the hurt his marrying had inflicted.

Poor Frances, she was desolate. She had loved him dearly and had been with him near to the end of his freedom. I wondered whether he had been tender with her then. I hoped so.

"Frances," I advised her, "go to the Queen. Weep with her, and ask her if she will see me. Tell her I beg her to grant this favor to a woman who has been twice widowed and is likely to be so again. Beg her, in her mercy, to see me. Tell her I know that her great good heart is there beneath her stern royalty, and tell her that if she will see me now I will bless her throughout my life."

Frances was granted an audience during which the Queen had commiserated with her and told her it was a sad day for her when she had lost a great man in Sidney and married a traitor.

And, to my surprise, I too was granted an audience.

So, once again, I was in her presence. But this time on my knees to plead for my son's life. She was dressed in black—for Essex, I wondered—but her gown was covered in pearls; she held her head high above the ornate ruff and her face looked very pale against the too red curls of her wig.

She gave me her hand to kiss and then she said: "Lettice!" And we looked at each other. I tried to compose my features, but I could feel the tears coming into my eyes.

"God's breath!" she said. "What a fool your son is!"

I bowed my head.

"And he has brought himself to this," she went on. "I never wished it for him."

"Madam, he would never have harmed you."

"Doubtless he would have left that for his friends to do."

"Nay, nay, he loves you."

She shook her head. "He saw through me the way to advancement. Do not all of them?"

She signed for me to get off my knees and I rose saying: "You are a great Queen, Your Majesty, and all the world knows it."

She looked at me steadily and said grudgingly: "You still have some beauty left. You were very handsome when you were young."

"No one could compete with you."

Strangely enough I meant it. She had something more than beauty, and she still retained it, old as she was.

"A crown is becoming, Cousin."

"But it does not suit all who wear it. Madam, it becomes you well."

"You have come to ask me to spare them," she said. "I was of a mind not to see you. You and I have nothing to say to each other."

"I thought we might offer each other comfort."

She looked haughty, and I said boldly: "Madam, he is my son."

"And you love him dearly?"

I nodded.

"I did not think you capable of loving anyone but yourself."

"Sometimes I have believed that to be so, but now I know it is untrue. I love my son."

"Then you must prepare yourself—as I must—to suffer his loss."

"Is there nothing that can save him?"

She shook her head.

"You plead for your son," she went on. "Not your husband."

"I plead for them both, Madam."

"You do not love this young man."

"We have lived pleasantly together."

"I heard that you preferred him to ..."

"There are always evil rumors, Madam.

"I never believed you could prefer any other," she said slowly. "If he were here today ..." She moved her head impatiently. "Life was never the same after he went..."

I thought of Leicester dead. I thought of my son who was condemned to die, and I forgot everything but the need to save him.

I threw myself to my knees again. I felt the tears running down my face, and there was nothing I could do to stop them.

"You cannot let him die," I cried. "You cannot."

She turned away from me. "It has gone too far," she murmured.

"You could save him. Oh, Madam, forget all the enmity between us. It is over and done with ... and have either of us long to live?"

She flinched. As always she hated people to refer to her age. I should have known better. My grief had robbed me of my good sense.

"However much you hated me in the past," I went on, "I beg of you now to forget that. He is dead ... our beloved Leicester ... gone forever. Were he here with us today, he would be kneeling here with me."

"Be silent," she shouted. "How dare you come here ... you She-Wolf! You ensnared him with your wanton ways. You took the finest man that ever lived. You lured him into deceit ... and now this rebel son of yours deserves well the ax. And you ... you of all women ... dare come here and ask me to spare a traitor."

"If you let him die, you will never forget it," I said, all caution deserting me in this desperate need to save my son.

She was silent for a while, and I saw that the shrewd tawny eyes were glistening. She was moved. She loved him. Or once she had loved him.

I kissed her hand fervently but she withdrew it—not sharply, though, almost tenderly.

"You will save him," I pleaded.

But the Queen was replacing the emotional woman whom 1 had briefly glimpsed.

She said slowly: "I have seen you, Lettice, for Leicester's sake. He would have wished it. But even if he knelt before me now and asked this of me, I could not grant it. Nothing can save your son ... nor your husband ... now. They have gone too far. I could not, if I would, stay their execution now. There is a time when one must go forward. There is no looking back. Essex has walked into this with his eyes open and a determination to destroy himself. I must perforce sign his death warrant, and you and I must say goodbye forever to this foolish boy."

I shook my head. I think I was mad with grief. I knelt and kissed the hem of her robe. She stood looking down at me, and as I lifted my eyes to her face I saw a certain compassion there. Then she said: "Rise. I am tired. Goodbye, Cousin. Methinks it is a strange matter this mad dance of our lives—mine, yours, and these two men we loved. Yes, we have loved two men, dearly. The one is lost to us; the other soon will be. There is no turning back. What is to be will be."

How old she looked with the marks of real grief on her face.

I was about to plead once more, but she shook her head and turned away.

I was dismissed. There was nothing to do but leave her and return in my barge to Leicester House.

I would not let myself believe that she would not relent. I told myself that when it came to signing his death warrant she would not be able to do it. I had seen it in her face that she loved him. Not as she had loved Leicester, of course, but still she loved him. My hopes were high.

But she signed the death warrant, and I was in despair. Then she recalled it. How happy I was—but, oh, how briefly so, for she changed her mind, urged no doubt by her ministers.

Once more she signed the warrant, and this time she did not withdraw.

On Wednesday, the twenty-fifth of February, my son, dressed in black, came out of his prison in the Tower and was taken to the high court above Caesar's Tower.

He was praying as he laid his head on the block.

There was mourning throughout London, and the executioner was seized by the mob and rescued just in time before they could kill him. Poor man, as though it were his fault!

The Queen shut herself away and mourned him, and in Leicester House I remained in my bedchamber and waited for news of my husband.

About a week after Essex's death, poor Christopher was tried and found guilty; and on the eighteenth of March he was taken out to Tower Hill, where he was beheaded.