My Enemy the Queen

Royal Scandal

We arrived back in time to see her coronation. What a day that was with the people rejoicing and telling themselves that good times lay ahead. The smell of smoke from the Smithfield Fires still seemed to cling to the air but that only added to the jubilation. Bloody Mary was dead and Elizabeth the Good ruled our land.

I saw her leave for the Tower at two of the afternoon of that January day; she was dressed in the royal robes of a queen and she looked the part in her chariot, which was covered with crimson velvet over which was a canopy borne by her knights, one of whom was Sir John Perrot, a man of mighty girth who claimed to be the illegitimate son of Henry VIII and therefore brother to the Queen.

I could not take my eyes from her in her crimson velvet robe, ermine cape and cap to match her robe under which her fair hair showed, glinting red in the sparkling frosty air. Her tawny eyes were bright and eager, her complexion dazzlingly fair. I thought she was beautiful in that moment. She was all that our mother had told us. She was magnificent.

She was over medium height and very slender, which made her seem younger than she actually was. She was twenty-five at this time, and to a girl of seventeen that seemed quite old. I noticed her hands, for she called attention to them by displaying them as much as possible. They were white, elegant with long tapering fingers. Her face was oval and longish; her brows so fair that they were scarcely perceptible; her eyes were piercing—a golden yellow, but often later I thought they sometimes seemed quite dark. She was a little shortsighted and often when she was endeavoring to see she gave the impression of penetrating into the minds of those about her, which made them very uneasy. There was a quality about her which even then—young as I was and on such an occasion—I was able to perceive, and it thrilled me to watch her.

Then my attention was caught and held by someone else as arresting as she was. This was Robert Dudley, her Master of Horse, who rode with her. I had never seen such a man. He was as outstanding in that assembly as the Queen herself. In the first place he was very tall and broad-shouldered and possessed one of the handsomest faces I had ever seen. He was stately, noble, and his dignity matched that of the Queen. There was nothing haughty about his expression; it was grave, and he had an air of extreme but quiet confidence.

My eager looks went from him to the young Queen and then back again.

I noticed that the Queen paused to speak to the most humble people, smiling and giving them her attention, brief as it must be. I learned in time that it was her policy never to offend the people. Her courtiers often felt the weight of her displeasure but to the common people she was always the benevolent Queen. When they cried: "God save Your Grace!" she answered: "God save you all!" reminding them that she was no less conscious of their well-being than they were of hers. Nosegays were offered to her and however humble the giver she took them as graciously as though they were rare gifts. It was said that one beggar gave her a branch of rosemary at the Fleet Bridge, and it was still in her carriage when she came to Westminster.

We rode with the procession—after all, were we not her kinsfolk?—so we saw the pageants of Cornhill and the Chepe, which was gay with banners and streamers which fluttered from every window.

The next day we were present at her coronation and saw her walk into the Abbey on the purple cloth which had been spread for her.

I was too bemused to pay much attention to the ceremony, but I thought she was beautiful when she was crowned first in the heavy crown of St. Edward and afterwards in the smaller one of pearls and diamonds. The pipes, the drums and the trumpet sounded as Elizabeth was crowned Queen of England.

"Life will be different for us now," said my father. And how right he was.

It was not long before the Queen sent for him. He was given an audience and came back to us full of enthusiasm and hope.

"She is wonderful," he told us. "She is all that a Queen should be. The people adore her and she is full of goodwill towards them. I thank God that he has preserved me to serve such a Queen, and so will I with my life."

She admitted him to her Council and intimated that she wished her good cousin, Catherine—my mother—to become a lady of her Privy Chamber.

We girls were jubilant. This would mean that we would go to Court at last. All those hours of musical tuition—madrigals, lute and harpsichord—all the dancing, bowing and curtsying, everything we had endured that we might comport ourselves with grace, had been worthwhile. We chattered interminably; we lay awake at night discussing our future, for we could not sleep, so excited were we. I might have had some premonition that I was going to my destiny, so deeply did this wild exultation possess me.

The Queen expressed a desire to see us—not en bloc but singly.

"There will be places for you all," my mother told us excitedly. "And indeed you will have opportunities."

"Opportunities" meant good marriages and that was a matter which had deeply concerned our parents during our exile.

The day arrived when it was my turn to be presented to Her Majesty. Vividly I remember to this day every detail of the gown I wore. It was of deep blue silk, bombasted, and with a bell-shaped skirt and slashed sleeves. The bodice was tightly fitting and my mother gave me a girdle, which she greatly prized, to wear about my waist. It was set with small precious stones of varying colors and she told me it would bring me luck. Soon afterwards, I decided that it had. I had wanted to have my hair uncovered for, to tell the truth, I was extremely proud of it—but my mother said that one of the new French hoods would be more suitable. I was a little rebellious about this, for the veil which flowed out behind concealed my hair; but I had to give way this once, for my mother was very nervous as to the effect I might have on the Queen, and she stressed the point that if I displeased her I could spoil not only my own chances but those of the others as well.

What struck me most forcibly at the first meeting was her aura of sovereignty, and at that moment—although neither of us knew it then—our lives became entwined. She was to play a more important part in my life than anyone else—except perhaps Robert —and my role in hers, in spite of all the momentous events of her reign, was not insignificant.

No doubt I was a little naive at the time in spite of my attempts at worldliness. The German years had been stultifying but I was to realize at once that there was in her a quality which I had never seen in any other person. Her twenty-five years, I knew, had been filled with terrifying experiences, enough to break most people forever. She had come near to death and indeed lived under its shadow, as prisoner in the Tower of London, with the ax again and again ready to fall on that fragile neck. She had not been quite three years old when her mother had gone to her execution. Was she old enough to have remembered that? There was something about those big tawny eyes to suggest that she did and that she would learn quickly and remember what she had learned. She was notoriously precocious—a scholar in the nursery. Oh yes, she remembered! Perhaps that was why though Death had followed closely behind her through those precarious years it had never succeeded in catching up with her. She was regal—so briefly a Queen—and yet to be one minute in her company was to know that she wore her royalty effortlessly, as though she had been preparing for it all her life—which perhaps she had. She was very slender, straight-backed, and her fair skin had been inherited from her father. Her elegant mother had been dark-haired, olive-skinned. I, not Elizabeth, had inherited those dark eyes, which were also said to be like those of my grandmother Mary Boleyn, but my hair—abundant and curly—was the color of pale honey. It would be foolish to deny that this combination was very attractive, and I had quickly realized this. From what I had seen of Boleyn portraits Elizabeth had inherited nothing from her mother, except perhaps that indefinable brilliance, which I was sure her mother must have possessed to have so bewitched the King that he rid himself of his royal Spanish wife and broke with Rome itself for her sake.

Elizabeth's hair was like a golden halo with hints of red in it. I had heard that her father possessed a magnetism which drew people to him in spite of his cruelty, and she had that too; but in her case it was tempered with a feminine power to bewitch which must have come through her mother.

I felt in those first moments that she was all that I had pictured her to be and I immediately sensed that she had taken a fancy to me. My unusual coloring and my vivacity had meant that I had always been accepted as the beauty of our family and my good looks had attracted the Queen.

"You have a good deal of your grandmother in you," my mother had once said. "You will have to guard against your nature."

I knew what she meant. Men would find me attractive, as they had Mary Boleyn, and I should have to guard against granting favors where they could bring me no good. It was a prospect which delighted me and was one of the reasons why I was so pleased to have come to Court.

The Queen was seated on a large carved chair which was like a throne and my mother led me to her.

"Your Majesty, my daughter Letitia. We call her Lettice in the family."

I curtsied, keeping my eyes lowered as I had been told I must, conveying that I dared not raise them because of the dazzling brilliance of royalty.

"Then so shall I call her," said the Queen. "Lettice, stand up and come closer so that I can see you better."

Shortsightedness made her pupils seem very large. I was amazed by the delicate texture and whiteness of her skin; her light brows and lashes gave her a certain look of surprise.

"Why, Cat," she said to my mother, for it was a habit of hers to give people nicknames and my mother's being Catherine it was easy to see why she called her Cat, "you have a pretty daughter here."

In those days my good looks pleased her. She was always susceptible to good looks—particularly in men, of course, but she did like handsome women too ... until the men she liked admired them also!

"Thank you, Your Majesty."

The Queen laughed. "You're a fertile wife, Cousin," she said. "Seven sons and four daughters, is it? I like to see large families. And, Lettice, give me your hand. We're cousins, you know. How like you England now you have returned to it?"

"England is a beautiful place since Your Majesty became its Queen."

"Ha!" she laughed. "I see you bring her up in the right fashion. That's Francis, I'll swear."

"Francis was always watchful of what was happening to his sons and daughters while we were away from home," said my mother. "When Your Majesty was in danger he was in despair ... so indeed were we all."

She nodded gravely. "Well, now you are home and life should go well for you. You'll have to find husbands for your girls, Cat. If they are all as handsome as Lettice that should not be difficult."

"It is such a joy to be home, Madam," said my mother. "I verily believe that neither I nor Francis can give thought to anything but that for a while."

"We shall see what can be done," said the Queen, her eyes on me. "Your Lettice has not much to say for herself," she commented.

"I had believed I must wait for Your Majesty's permission to speak," I said quickly.

"So you can speak up, then. I'm glad of that. I could never abide those who cannot give an account of themselves. A plausible rogue is more amusing than a silent saint. So what will you tell me of yourself?"

"I will say that I share my parents' delight in being here and seeing my royal kinswoman where we have always fervently believed she belonged."

"Well spoken. I can see that you have after all taught her to use her tongue, Cousin."

"That is something I taught myself, Madam," I retorted quickly.

My mother looked alarmed at my temerity, but the Queen's lips twitched in a manner which showed she was not displeased.

"What else did you teach yourself?" asked the Queen.

"To listen when I was incapable of taking part in discussion; and to throw myself into the center of it when I could."

The Queen laughed. "Then you have learned much wisdom. You will have need of it when you come to Court. Many prate but a few ever learn the art of listening and those who do are the wise men and women. And you ... but seventeen, is it? ... have learned this already. Come and sit near me. I would talk with you for a while."

My mother was looking well pleased and at the same time flashing a warning glance at me, telling me not to let this initial success go to my head. She was right. I could be impulsive, and instinct warned me that the Queen could be as suddenly displeased as pleased.

My opportunity to walk on this dangerous ground was denied me, for at that moment the door opened unceremoniously and a man came into the room. My mother looked startled and I realized that he must have broken some strict rule of royal etiquette thus to burst in unannounced.

He was different from any man I had seen. There was an indefinable quality about him which was immediately apparent. To say that he was handsome—which he undoubtedly was—conveys little. There are many handsome men but I have never found one who was possessed of his outstanding quality. I had seen him before at the coronation. It may be thought that it was love which made me see Robert Dudley thus; it may be that he bemused and bewitched me as he did so many women—even Elizabeth herself—but I did not always love him, and when I look far back and remember what happened in our last days together I shudder even now. Loving or hating Robert Dudley, one would have to admit that charismatic quality. Charism is defined as a free gift of grace and I can think of nothing better with which to describe him. He was born with that free gift of grace, and he knew it well.

In the first place he was one of the tallest men I have ever seen and he emanated power. Power, I believe, is the very essence of attractiveness in men. At least it has always been so with me ... until I grew older. When I discussed lovers with my sisters—and I did frequently because I knew they would play a big part in my life—I said my lover would be a man who would command others; he would be rich and others would fear his wrath—all except myself. He would fear mine. I realize that in describing the sort of lover I desired, I am in truth describing myself. I was always ambitious—not for temporal power. I never envied Elizabeth her crown, and I was glad that she had it because when the rivalry was strong between us I could prove that I could triumph over her without it. I wanted attention to be centered on me. I wanted to be irresistible to those who pleased me. I was at this time beginning to realize that I was a woman of deep sensual needs and that they would have to be satisfied.

Robert Dudley, then, was the most attractive man I had ever seen. He was very dark—almost to swarthiness, his hair growing thick and nearly black; his dark eyes were lively and gave the impression of seeing all; his nose was slightly hooked; his figure was that of an athlete, and he held himself like a king in the presence of a queen.

I sensed the change his arrival created in Elizabeth. Her pale skin was tinged with pink.

" Tis Rob," she said, "as we might have expected. So you come to us thus unannounced." The soft caress in her voice belied the sharpness of her words, and it was clear that the interruption was by no means unwelcome, clear too that she had forgotten my mother and me.

She held out her beautiful white hand; he bowed as he took it and kissed it, keeping it while his eyes went to her face and by the smile they exchanged I could have sworn they were lovers.

"Dear lady," he said, "I made haste to come to you."

"Some calamity?" she replied. "Come, tell me."

"Nay," he replied, "only the desire to see you which would not be put aside."

My mother's hand was on my. shoulder, turning me towards the door. I looked back at the Queen. I had supposed I should wait for permission to retire.

My mother shook her head as she inclined it towards the door. We went out together. The Queen had forgotten us; so had Robert Dudley.

When the door had shut behind us, my mother said: "They say there would be a marriage between them but for the fact that he already has a wife."

I kept thinking about them. I could not forget the handsome, elegant Robert Dudley and the manner in which he had looked at the Queen. I was piqued that he had not cast even one glance in my direction, and I promised myself that if he had I should have made him take a second. I kept seeing him in his white starched ruff, his padded hips, his doublet, his bombasted breeches, the diamond in one ear. I remembered the perfect shape of his legs in their close-fitting hose; he had been garterless because of the symmetry of his legs, which allowed him to dispense with articles so necessary to men less well equipped.

The memory of that first meeting remained in my mind as something I had to avenge, because on that occasion when the triangle was formed neither of them gave a thought to Lettice Knollys whose mother, a short time before, had most humbly presented her to the Queen.

It was a beginning. After that I was often at Court. The Queen had a strong friendly feeling for her mother's family even though the name of Anne Boleyn was rarely mentioned. This was characteristic of Elizabeth. There were certain to be many people in the country who doubted her legitimacy. None would dare refer to it, of course, on pain of death, but she was too wise not to accept the fact that it was in their minds. Although Anne Boleyn's name was rarely mentioned, the Queen was constantly calling attention to her own resemblance to her father Henry VIII and in fact stressed the similarities whenever possible. As she undoubtedly had a look of him, this was not difficult. At the same time she was always ready to favor her mother's relations, as if in that way she might make amends to that forsaken lady. My sister Cecilia and I thus became maids of honor to the Queen and so within a few weeks we were ladies of the Court. Anne and Catharine were too young, but in due course their time would come.

Life was full of excitement. This was what we had dreamed of during the dull years in Germany and I was just of an age to enjoy it.

The Court was the center of the country—a magnet drawing to it the rich and ambitious. All the great families of the country circulated about the Queen, each vying with the other in magnificence. Elizabeth, at the very heart of it, loved display and extravagance—as long as she did not have to pay for it; she enjoyed pageantry, gaiety, balls and banquets—although I noticed that she was abstemious regarding both drinking and eating. But she was fond of music and was tireless where dancing was concerned, and although she danced mainly with Robert Dudley, she did take a fleeting delight in any handsome young man who could dance well. She fascinated me mainly because of the diversity of her character. To see her in some extravagantly glittering gown dancing—and often coquettishly—with Robert Dudley, so that the performance was like the titillating preliminary to an amorous climax, gave an impression of such lightness which in a queen would seem fatal to her future; then she could change suddenly; she would be acerbic, serious, asserting her authority and even then showing men of great talent like William Cecil that she had a complete grasp of a situation and it would be her will that would be done. As no one could be sure when her lighthearted mood would be over, everyone must tread cautiously. Robert Dudley was the only one who overstepped the mark; but I saw her, on more than one occasion, administer a playful slap on his cheek, familiarly affectionate and yet at the same time carrying with it a reminder that she was the Queen and he her subject. I saw Robert take the reproving hand and kiss it, which softened her mood. He was very sure of himself in those days.

It was soon clear that she had taken a liking to me. I danced as well as she did, though none would have dared acknowledge this. At Court no one danced as well as the Queen; no woman's gown was as becoming as the Queen's; no one's beauty could possibly compare with hers; she was supreme in all things. I knew full well, however, that I was spoken of as one of the most beautiful women at Court; the Queen acknowledged this and called me "Cousin." I had a certain wit too, which I warily tried on the Queen. It did not displease her. She found that she could indulge her Boleyn relations from pleasure as well as duty to her dead mother, and there were frequent times when she kept me at her side. In those first days we, who were to confront each other in such bitterness and with such hatred in the years to come, then often laughed together, and she showed so clearly that she enjoyed my company. But she did not allow me—or any other of her pretty ladies—to be near her when Robert was with her in her private apartments. I often used to think that the reason she must constantly be told she was transcendingly beautiful was because she was unsure of it. How attractive would she be without royalty? I asked myself. But it was impossible to imagine her without it because it was so much a part of her. I would study my long lashes, my heavily marked brows, my luminous dark eyes and rather narrow face framed in masses of honey-yellow hair and exultantly compare my face with that pale one with its almost invisible lashes and brows, its imperious nose, its white, white skin which made her look almost delicate. I knew that any unprejudiced observer would admit that I was the beauty. But her royalty was there and with it the knowledge that she was the sun and the rest of us merely planets revolving around her, dependent on her for our light. In the days before she had become Queen she had been delicate and had suffered several illnesses during her hazardous youth and had, so we had heard, often been on the point of death. Now she was Queen she seemed to have thrown off these ailments; they had been the growing pains of royalty; but even when she had dispensed with them the pallor of her skin preserved the air of delicacy. When she painted her face, which she loved to do, she lost that look of fragility, but whatever she did, the royalty remained, and that was something with which no woman could compete.

She talked to me more frankly than she did to most of her ladies. I think it was due to the family connection. She enjoyed clothes inordinately and we often talked of them in a most frivolous fashion. She had so many gowns that even the wardrobe women could not be sure of the number; her figure was slender and the fashions which were so hard on plump women became her as well as they could any. She endured tight lacing and the uncomfortable whalebone busks we had to wear because they called attention to the tiny waist; and her ruffs were of gold and silver lace and frequently magnificently jeweled. Even in those days she sometimes wore what we called "dead-borrowed hair"— false pieces to give additional body to her red-gold locks.

I am writing of the days before the Amy Robsart scandal. She was never quite so lighthearted after that, never quite so carefree. In spite of her incessant demand for expressions of wonder at her perfections she was always ready to learn from experience. That was another of the many contrasts which made up her complex nature. She would never chatter so freely to anyone again as she did to me before the tragedy.

I think in those days she really might have married Robert if he had been free; but at the same time I sensed that she was not too unhappy about his previous attachment, which made her marriage to Robert impossible. This I was too naive to realize at the time and I believed that the reason she was pleased he was married to Amy Robsart was solely because that marriage had saved him from an alliance with Lady Jane Grey. But that was too simple an explanation. It was obvious that I had a great deal to learn then about that devious mind.

She talked of him to me and I often smile to recall those conversations now. Even she, with all her power, could not see into the future. He was her "Sweet Robin." She called him fondly her "Eyes," because he was always on the watch for her well-being, she told me. She enjoyed giving pet names to the handsome men who surrounded her. None, though, could compare with her Eyes. We were all certain that she would have married him if he had had no wife, but when that encumbrance was removed she was too wily to step into the trap. Few women would have been as wise. Should I? I wondered. I doubted it.

"We were in the Tower together," she told me once, "I because of Wyatt's rebellion, Rob because of the Jane Grey matter. Poor Rob, he always said he had no great feeling for it and that he would have given all he had to see me on the throne." I saw the soft look come into her face which changed it completely. That rather hawklike expression completely disappeared, and she was soft and feminine suddenly. Not that she was not always feminine. That quality never failed to show itself in her sternest moments, and I always believed it was, in some measure, her strength, the very reason she was able to make men work for her as for no one else. Being a woman was a part of her genius. I never saw that look, though, for anyone but Robert. He was the love of her life—next to the crown, of course.

"His brother Guildford had married Jane," she went on. "That sly fox Northumberland had seen to that. It could have been Rob —imagine that. But Fate married him off so he was not available, and although it was a mesalliance, it is one for which we must be grateful. So there we were in the Beauchamp Tower. The Earl of Sussex came to me. I remember it clearly. Would not you, Cousin Lettice, if you thought that before long your body would be deprived of its head? I had made up my mind that it would be no ax for me. I would have a sword from France." Her expression was blank suddenly and I knew she was thinking of her mother. "But in fact I never intended to die. I determined that it must not come to that, and I stood firm against them all. Something within me said: 'Have patience. In a few years all this will have changed.' Yes, I swear it. I knew this would come to pass."

"It was the prayers of Your Majesty's subjects which you heard," I said.

She never saw through flattery, or perhaps she did and liked it so much that she gobbled it up like a gourmand who knows it is bad for him but finds it irresistible.

"That may be. But I was taken to the Traitor's Gate and for a moment—though only for a moment—my heart failed me. And as I alighted and stood in the water, because the fools had misjudged the tide, I cried out: 'Here lands as true a subject, being prisoner, as ever landed at these stairs. Before Thee, oh God, I speak it, having no other friend but Thee alone.'"

"I know it well, Your Majesty," I told her. "Your brave words were recorded. They were both brave and clever, for the Lord, put thus on His mettle, must prove that He was as good an ally as all your enemies put together."

She looked at me and laughed. "You amuse me, Cousin," she said. "You must stay with me."

Then she went on to explain: "It was all so romantic. But then anything concerned with Rob always is. He made friends with the warder's boy, who adored him. Even little boys are aware of Robin's charm. The boy brought him flowers and Robin sent them to me ... by way of the child ... and there was a note for me enclosed in them. Thus I knew he was in the Tower and where. He was always audacious. He might have got us straightway to the block, but then, as he said when I taunted him with this, we were both halfway there already. And he never visualized failure; that is a quality we share. When they allowed me to walk out for exercise in the precincts of the Tower I went past Robert's cell. Oh, they were afraid to be too harsh with me, those jailers. Wise men! There was a chance I might remember ... one day. And so should I. But I found Robin and saw him through the bars of his window and that encounter sweetened our prison stay for both of us."

Once she started talking of Robert she found it difficult to stop.

"He was the first to come to me,_: Lettice," she went on. "That was right and fitting. The Queen, my sister, was sick unto death. Poor Mary, my heart went out to her. I was ever her good and faithful subject as all should be to their sovereign. But the people were sickened by what had happened during her reign. They wanted an end to religious persecution. They wanted a Protestant queen."

Her eyes were slightly veiled. Yes, I thought, it was so, my Queen. And if they had wanted a Catholic queen would you have obliged? I had no doubt in my mind as to the answer to that. Her religion sat lightly on her; perhaps it was as well; the late Queen had been so heavily weighed down by hers that it had ruined her good name with her people and made them rejoice in her death.

"A queen must rule through the will of the people," said Elizabeth. "Praise God, it is a truth which is clear to me. When my sister was near to death, the road to Hatfield was crowded with those who would come to pay homage to Elizabeth, whose name, but a short while before, few of them dared mention. But Robert had always been for me, and it was meet and fitting that he should be the first to come to me. He stood before me, freshly arrived from France. He would have been with me before, he told me, but by so doing he would have put me in danger. And he brought gold with him ... a token that should it be necessary to fight for my rights he would be beside me and would raise money to support me ... aye, and he would have done so."

"His loyalty did him credit," I said, and added slyly: "And brought him much good. Your Majesty's Master of Horse, no less."

"He has a way with horses, Lettice."

"And with women, Your Majesty."

I had gone too far. I realized that at once and a shiver ran through me. • "Why say you that?" she demanded.

"A man of such excellent parts, of such fine countenance and figure must surely enchant all that is female, Madam, walk they on two or four legs."

She was suspicious and although she allowed my comment to pass, my face was slapped none too gently a short while later because, she said, I handled one of her gowns clumsily. But I knew it was not for the gown but for Robert Dudley. Those beautifully shaped hands could deliver a sturdy blow, particularly when some jeweled ring cut into the skin. A gentle reminder that it would be unwise to displease the Queen.

I noticed that on the next occasion when Robert was present she watched him closely—and me. We did not look at each other and I think she was satisfied.

Robert was completely unaware of me in those days. He was firmly bent on one ambition from which nothing could make him swerve. At that time the determination to marry the Queen occupied him day and night.

I often wondered about his poor wife in the country and what she thought about the rumors. The fact that he never brought her to Court must have aroused her suspicion. I thought what fun it would be to bring her there. I imagined myself calling on Lady Amy and suggesting that she accompany me back to Court. I liked to picture myself presenting her. "Your Majesty, my good friend, Lady Dudley. You have shown such favor to my lord that passing Cumnor Place in Berkshire and meeting the lady, I was sure you would wish to give Lord Robert the pleasure of his wife's company." By which I betray that mischievous streak in my nature—also my annoyance because I, Lettice Knollys, so much more attractive than Elizabeth Tudor, was ignored—not even seen at all—by the most handsome man at Court; and all because she possessed a crown and I had nothing but myself.

I would, of course, never have dared to bring Lady Dudley to Court. There would be more than a sharp slap on the cheek if I did. I could see myself returning to Rotherfield Greys never to emerge again.

I was amused when an old woman was arrested for having slandered the Queen. It amazed me that a woman of no fixed address who spent her life tramping the countryside, doing odd jobs for which she could get food and lodging, should think she knew more of what happened in the Queen's bedchamber than those of us who were in attendance on her.

However, it seemed that old Mother Dowe, while doing some mending for a lady, had heard that lady say that Lord Robert had given the Queen a petticoat for a gift. Later Mother Dowe offered the information that it was not a petticoat which Lord Robert had given the Queen, but a child.

If the story had been clearly conjecture and utterly incredible, there would have been no need to take any notice of a mad old woman; but in view of the Queen's attitude towards Robert and his towards her, and the fact that they were undoubtedly often in each other's company unattended, the story could have been believed. Thus the old woman was arrested and the news of that arrest spread through the country at great speed.

Elizabeth showed her growing skill by dismissing the woman as mad and allowing her to go about her business, thus earning her undying gratitude, for the poor creature must have anticipated cruel death for spreading such rumors; and very soon the case of Mother Dowe was forgotten.

I often wonder whether it had some effect on the Queen's attitude to what happened soon after.

It was inevitable that, both at home and abroad, there should be speculation about her marriage. The country needed an heir; the recent troubles and dissensions which had beset us had been due to uncertainty about the succession. The Queen's ministers desired that she should choose a husband without delay and give the country what it wanted. She was not yet even middle-aged, neither was she so very young, though none would dare remind her of this.

Philip of Spain was making overtures. I heard her and Robert laughing about it because she had learned that the King had said that if he were persuaded to the match he would insist on Elizabeth's becoming a Catholic and he could not remain with her for long even if their brief encounter did not leave her pregnant. He could have said nothing more calculated to arouse her indignation. Become a Catholic!—when one of the main reasons for her popularity was her professed Protestantism and the cessation of the Smithfield Fires. And for any future husband to mention the fact that he wanted to escape from her as soon as possible was enough to bring about her haughty refusal.

But of course her ministers were eager for her to marry, and it seemed that, had it not been for the fact that Lord Robert was already married, some of them would have agreed to her union withhim. There was a great deal of envy directed against Robert. My long life, much of which has been lived among ambitious people, leads me to the belief that envy is more prevalent than any other emotion and certainly the deadliest of the seven sins. Robert had the Queen's favor to such an extent that she could not hide her fondness for him and showered honors on him; and those who would see that favor diminished found more suitable prospective husbands for her. The nephew of Philip of Spain—the Archduke Charles—was one of these suitors. The Duke of Saxony was another; then Prince Charles of Sweden was brought in. It was a case of the more the merrier as far as the Queen was concerned, and she delighted in teasing Robert by pretending to consider them, but she did not deceive many into thinking that she would accept any one of them. The prospect of marriage always excited her—even when she was much older—but her attitude to it forever remained a mystery. Somewhere at the back of her mind she greatly feared it, yet, at times, to consider it fascinated her as nothing else did. None of us ever understood that aspect of her character, which intensified as the years passed. At this time we were all unaware of it and everyone believed that she would marry sooner or later and that she would have taken one of her royal suitors if it had not been for Robert.

But Robert was there, always at her side, her Sweet Robin, her Eyes, her Master of Horse.

From Scotland came another offer. This time from the Earl of Arran but this was summarily dismissed by the Queen.

In the apartments of the Queen's women we used to whisper together. We speculated and I was often warned because of my boldness.

"You'll overstep the mark one day, Lettice Knollys," I was told. "Then the Queen will send you packing—Boleyn cousin though you may be."

I used to shiver at the thought of being sent back in disgrace to the boredom of Rotherfield Greys. I already had several admirers. Cecilia was sure I should have an offer of marriage before long, but I did not want to marry yet. I wanted time to make the right choice. I longed for a lover, although I was far too astute to take one before marriage. I had heard stories of girls who became pregnant and were dismissed from Court and married off to some country squire and doomed to spend the rest of their lives in the dullness of the country and endure their acquired husband's reproaches for their light behavior and the great good he had done them by marrying them. So I enjoyed my flirtations, going so far and no farther, and exchanging accounts of adventures with girls of a like nature.

I used to let myself dream that Lord Robert looked my way and I wondered what would happen if he did. I could not regard him as a suitor because he already had a wife, and if he had not, doubtless he would have been the Queen's husband by this time. But there was no harm in allowing myself to imagine that he came courting me and how, in spite of the Queen, we met and laughed together because she was not the one he wanted. Wild fancies—premonitions, I thought later—for at that time they were but fancies. Robert would never allow his gaze to stray from the Queen.

I remember one occasion when she was in a thoughtful mood. Her temper had been none too good because she had heard that Philip of Spain was to marry Elizabeth of Valois, daughter of Henri Deux of France, and although she did not want a suitor she did not like anyone else to have him.

"She's a Catholic already," she commented, "so he'll not have to bother about that. And as she is of little importance she can leave her country and go to Spain. The poor thing won't have to worry about being left, pregnant or otherwise."

"Your Majesty knew well how to deal with such ungallant conduct," I said soothingly.

She snorted. She had some very unfeminine habits sometimes. She looked at me quizzically. "I wish him joy of her and her of him—though I fear she'll get little. What disturbs me is the alliance between two of my enemies."

"Since Your Majesty came to the throne your people have ceased to fear their enemies abroad."

"Then more fool they!" she snapped. "Philip is a powerful man and England must always be wary of him. As for France ... it has a new king now and a new queen ... two sad little people, I believe, though one of them is my own Scottish kinswoman of whose beauty poets prate."

"As they do of Your Majesty's."

She bowed her head but her eyes were fierce. "She dares call herself Queen of England—that Scottish girl, who spends her time dancing and urging poets to write odes to her. They say her charm and beauty are unsurpassed."

"She is the Queen, Madam."

The fierce eyes were on me. I had slipped. If one queen's beauty was measured by her royalty, what of another?

"So you think that is why they praise her, then?"

I called in the helpful and anonymous "They." "They say, Madam, that Mary Stuart is light in her fancies and surrounds herself with lovers who curry favor by writing odes to her beauty." I was crafty. I must extricate myself from her displeasure. "They say, Madam, that she is by no means as beautiful as hearsay would have us believe. She is over tall, ungainly and suffers from spots."

"Is that so, then?"

I breathed more freely and tried to remember anything derogatory I had heard against the Queen of France and Scotland, and I could only recall praise.

So I said: "They say that Lord Robert's wife is sick of a fatal disease and that she cannot last the year."

She closed her eyes and I was not sure whether I dared go on. "They say!" They say!" she burst out suddenly. "Who says?"

She turned on me sharply and nipped my arm. I could have cried out with the pain, for those beautiful pointed fingers were capable of very sharp nips.

"I but repeat gossip, Madam, because I think it may amuse Your Majesty."

"I would hear what is said."

"So I thought."

"And what else say They of Lord Robert's wife?"

"That she lives quietly in the country and that she is unworthy of him and that it was ill luck that he should have married when he was but a boy."

She sat back nodding, and there was a smile about her lips.

It was not long after that when I heard that Lord Robert's wife was dead. She had been discovered at the bottom of a staircase at Cumnor Place with her neck broken.

The Court was agog. None dared talk of it in the presence of the Queen, but they could scarcely wait to do so out of her sight and hearing.

What had happened to Amy Dudley? Had she committed suicide? Was it an accident? Or had she been murdered?

In view of all the rumors which had persisted through the last months, in view of the fact that the Queen and Robert Dudley behaved like lovers, and Robert seemed to have a conviction that soon he would marry the Queen, the last suggestion did not seem an impossibility.

We whispered about it and forgot to watch our words. My parents sent for me and lectured me severely on the need for the utmost discretion. I could see that my father was worried.

"This could rob Elizabeth of her throne," I heard him tell my mother. Certainly he was worried, for the Knollys fortunes were as ever wrapped up in those of our royal kinswoman.

The rumors grew more and more unpleasant. I heard that the Spanish Ambassador had written to his master that the Queen had told him Lady Dudley was dead several days before she was found dead at the bottom of the stairs. This was completely damning, but I could hardly accept it as truth. If Elizabeth and Robert were planning to have Amy murdered, Elizabeth would never have told the Spanish ambassador that she was dead before she was. De Quadra was wily; it was in his country's interest to discredit the Queen. This was what he was trying to do. Being aware of the potent masculinity of Robert Dudley, I could imagine a woman's going to great lengths to get him. I put myself in Elizabeth's position and asked myself: Would I? And I could well picture our plotting together in the heat of our passion.

We all waited tensely for what would happen next.

I could not believe that the Queen would ever put her crown in jeopardy for any man, and that if Amy had been murdered, she would have allowed herself to become involved. Of course she was capable of indiscretion. One only had to remember the case of Thomas Seymour when she had allowed herself to be led into a very dangerous state of affairs. Ah, but the crown was not hers at that time and she had not then begun that passionate devotion to it.

The great point was that Robert was now free to marry her. The whole Court, the whole country, and, I suspected, the whole of Europe waited to see how she would respond. One thing was clear. On the day she married Robert Dudley she would be judged guilty, and that was what men like my father were afraid of.

The first thing she did was send Robert away from Court, which was wise. They must not be seen together so that people would in any way connect the Queen with the tragedy.

Robert, expressing great distress—feigned or otherwise (although perhaps he could have been distraught by what had happened even if he had arranged it)—sent his cousin, Thomas Blount, to Cumnor Place to take charge of the proceedings, and there followed an inquest at which the verdict was Accidental Death.

How difficult Elizabeth was during the weeks which followed. It was so easy to offend her. She swore at us—she could curse like her royal father, it was said, and took a great pleasure in using his favorite oaths—and then would give us a nip or a slap. I believed she was undergoing torment. She wanted Robert and yet she knew that to marry him would be tantamount to an admission of guilt. She would know that in the streets of the cities people would be discussing the death of Amy Dudley, and the words of Mother Dowe would be remembered. Her people would suspect her; if she married Robert they would not respect her again. A queen had to be above ordinary passions. They would see her as merely a weak and sinful woman; and she knew that if she were to keep her hold on the glittering crown she must retain her people's devotion.

At least that was what I surmised occupied her thoughts as she loured in her apartments. But later I began to think I was wrong.

Robert returned to Court—bold and boastful, certain that soon he would be the Queen's husband. After a while he grew sullen, and I, in common with the rest of the world, badly wanted to know what they said to each other when they were alone.

Now I believe that she had no hand in Amy's death, that in a way she had no real wish to marry Robert; she preferred to be unattainable as she had been while his wife lived. She wanted Robert to have a neglected wife not a dead one. Perhaps she did not want marriage because in a strange way she was afraid of it. She wanted romantic attachments; she wanted admirers pining for her love; but she wanted none of that climax which would be triumphant for them and so distasteful to her.

I wonder if that were indeed so.

Whatever the reason, she did not marry Robert. She was too wily for that.

And it was at this time that Walter Devereux came to my notice.