My Enemy the Queen

The First Encounter

I married Walter in the year 1561, when I was in my twenty-first year. My parents were pleased with the match, and the Queen readily gave it her nod of approval. Walter was the second Viscount of Hereford then, about the same age as myself, and because his family was one of standing, it was considered a good match. The Queen remarked that it was time I had a husband, which gave me some misgiving and I wondered if she had noticed that my eyes often wandered in Robert Dudley's direction.

I had come to the conclusion that Robert would never marry anybody but the Queen. Walter had asked me several times to be his wife. I was quite fond of him and my parents wanted the match. He was young and, as my father pointed out, appeared to have a good future ahead of him which would keep him at Court, so I chose him from several suitors and settled for married life.

It is not easy to remember in detail how I felt about Walter, all those years ago. The Queen had hinted that I was a girl who should be married—and she was right. I believe for a while I even thought I was in love with Walter and gave up dreaming of Robert Dudley.

After the ceremony, Walter and I went to his ancestral home, Chartley Castle, a rather impressive edifice rising from a fertile plain. From its high turrets it was possible to see some of the finest scenery in Staffordshire. It was about six miles southeast of the town of Stafford and situated halfway between Rugby and Stone.

Walter was proud of Chartley and I expressed great interest in it because it was to be my home. It had a circular keep and two round towers which were quite ancient, having been constructed as long ago as 1220. They had already stood up to more than three hundred years of wind and weather and looked ready to withstand three hundred more. The walls were twelve feet thick and the loopholes were built so that arrows could be shot horizontally, which made it a wonderful fortress.

There had been a building of some sort there in the days of the Conqueror before the castle was built and the present Chartley had been erected on that old site.

"It belonged to the Earls of Derby," Walter told me, "and it was during the reign of Henry VI that it came into the Devereux family, when one of the daughters of the house married a Walter Devereux, Earl of Essex. We've had it ever since."

I agreed that it was indeed a noble castle.

The first year of my marriage was happy enough. Walter was a devoted husband, deeply in love with me, and marriage and all it entailed agreed with my nature. I went occasionally to Court, where the Queen received me affectionately. I fancied she was more than mildly pleased that I was married, which showed that she had become aware of the pleasure I took in masculine society. She hated the attention of any man to stray from her even for a few moments, and perhaps she had noticed some of her favorites eye me with approval.

Walter had never been among those favored. He lacked that dashing gallantry which she so much admired. I think he was too innately honest to think up the extravagant compliments which they were all expected to pay and which when considered were really rather absurd. He was for the Queen and the country; he would serve them with his life; but he simply could not dance attendance on her as those in her innermost circle must.

This meant of course that we were not so often at Court as I had previously been, but when we did go she never forgot her good cousin—myself—and invariably wanted to hear how I was enjoying married life.

Oddly enough, I was quite prepared in those early days of marriage to spend a certain amount of time in the country. I even developed a fondness for the life. I took an interest in my home. It was cold and drafty in the winter and I had great fires roaring in the grates; I made rules for the servants. They must be up at six in summer and seven in winter; the beds and fireplaces must be cleaned by eight and fires started for the day. I became interested in the herb gardens and made one of the servants who was especially interested in herbal art instruct me. I arranged flowers in bowls and set them about the house; I sat with the women and embroidered the new altar cloth they were working on. It seems scarcely possible now that I could have thrown myself so whole-heartedly into the country life.

When my family visited us or we had people from the Court to stay, I took a pride in showing what a good housewife I had become. I was proud of our Venetian glasses, which sparkled so delightfully in candlelight when they were filled with good muscatel, romney or malmsey; and I made the servants polish the silver and pewter until the whole scene was reflected in their shining glory. I was determined that our table should be admired for the good fare we offered our guests. I liked to see it laden with meat and fowl and fish, pies fashioned into fanciful shapes, which usually contrived to do some honor to the visitors; and we did the same with marchpane and gingerbread, so everything was much admired.

People marveled. "Lettice has become the best of all hostesses," they said.

It was another trait in my nature that I must always be the best and this was like a new game to me. I was satisfied with my home and my husband; and I gave myself wholeheartedly to that enjoyment.

I used to love to walk through the castle and imagine the days of the past. I had the rushes swept regularly so that our castle was less odoriferous than most. We suffered a good deal from the proximity of the privies—but what house did not?—and I made a rule that the emptying of ours should be done while we were at Court so that we should escape that unpleasantness.

Walter and I would ride round the estate and sometimes walk near the castle. I shall always remember the day he showed me the cows in Chartley Park. They were slightly different from cows I had seen elsewhere.

"They are our very own Stafford cows," said Walter.

I examined them closely, interested because they were ours. They were sand-white in color and there were smudges of black on their muzzles, ears and hoofs.

"We must hope that none of them produce a black calf," Walter told me, and when I wanted to know why he explained: "There's a legend in the family. If a black calf appears that means there will be a death in the family."

"What nonsense!" I cried. "How can the birth of a black calf affect us?"

"It's one of those stories which become attached to families like ours. It all started at the time of the Battle of Burton Bridge when the owner of the house was killed and the castle passed temporarily out of the family."

"But it came back to them."

"Yes, but it was a tragic time. A black calf was born at that time and so it was said that black calves meant disaster for the Devereux family."

"Then we must make sure that no more are born."

"How?"

"Get rid of the cows."

He laughed at me tenderly. "My dear Lettice, that would indeed be defying fate. I am sure the penalty for that would be greater than the birth of a black calf."

I looked at those large-eyed placid creatures and said: "Please, no black calves."

And Walter laughed at me and kissed me and told me how happy he was that I had, after much persuasion, agreed to marry him.

Of course there was a reason for my contentment. I was pregnant.

My daughter Penelope was born a year after my marriage.

I experienced the delights of motherhood and of course my daughter was more beautiful, more intelligent and better in every way than any child who had been born before. I was well content to stay at Chartley with her and could not bear to leave her for long. Walter believed at that time that he had found the ideal wife. Poor Walter, he was always a man of poor judgment.

However, while I was crooning over my daughter, I became pregnant again, but I did not experience quite the same ecstasy over this one. I had never remained absorbed for any length of time in any of my enthusiasms and I found the prenatal months irksome. Penelope was showing a spirit of her own, which made her not quite the docile child she had been; and I was beginning to think with increasing longing of the Court and to wonder what was happening there.

I heard the news from time to time and a great deal of it was about the Queen and Robert Dudley. I could imagine how irritated Robert must be by her continued refusal to marry him now that he was free. Oh, but she was wily. How could she marry him and escape the smears of scandal? She never could. For as long as she lived, if she did so, she would be suspected of complicity in the murder of Amy Dudley. People still talked of it—even in country places like Chartley. Some murmured that there was one law for the people and another for the Queen's favorites. There were few people in England who did not believe Robert at least guilty of his wife's murder.

Strangely enough, the effect it had on me was to make me more fascinated than ever. He was a strong man, a man who would have his way. I indulged in fantasies about him and was delighted because the Queen would not have him.

Walter continued to be a good husband, but that wonder he had found in my society—and which had endeared him to me— was no longer there. A man cannot go on being amazed at the sexual prowess of his wife, I suppose; I was certainly not enchanted by his, which had never seemed to me more than one might have expected from any man. It was only because I had been eager for such experiences that I had been so delighted by them. Now with a year-old daughter and another child clamoring to be born, I went through a period of disenchantment, and for the first time I began to be unfaithful... in thought.

I could not go to Court in my state but I was always eager to know what was going on there. Walter came back to Chartley with news that the Queen was ill and not expected to live.

I felt a terrible depression, cheated—which was strange, for I could not see into the future. Perhaps it was a blessing that I could not, though even if I could have foreseen I wonder if I should have acted differently. I doubt it.

Walter was gloomy and I guessed my parents too were wondering what would happen to the country if the Queen died. There was a possibility that Mary Queen of Scots, who had been forced to leave France on the death of her young husband Francois Deux, might be offered the throne.

"Why," said Walter, "two of the Pole brothers did their best to march on London, their object being to put Mary Stuart on the throne. Of course they declared they had no wish to do this and merely wanted the Queen to name Mary of Scotland as her successor."

"And bring back Catholicism!" I cried.

"That was their aim."

"And the Queen?"

"Sick unto death. She sent for Dudley. She would have him with her at the end, she said."

" 'Tis not the end yet," I put in quickly.

I looked at Walter and thought: If she dies, Robert will marry. And now I am married to Walter Devereux!

And I think it was in that moment that I began to dislike my husband.

"She sent for him," went on Walter, "and told him that if she had not been Queen she would have been his wife. Then she called her ministers to her bedside and told them that it was her dying wish that Robert Dudley be made Protector of the Realm."

I caught my breath. "She really does care for him," I said.

"Did you have any doubt of it?"

"She would not marry him."

"Nay, for he stands suspected of murdering his wife."

"I wonder ..." I began; and I was picturing her carried to her grave, her brief reign over. And what would happen to the country? Some would try to put Mary of Scotland on the throne; and there would be others who wanted the Lady Catharine Grey. We could be plunged into civil war. But the question which plagued me most was: What will Robert do if she dies? And I was asking myself if I had hurried too quickly into marriage and whether it would have been better to have waited a while.

Then I gave birth to my second child—a daughter and I called her Dorothy.

The Queen recovered, which was what might have been expected of her. Moreover she had come through unscathed, which was rare. Robert's sister Mary, who was married to Henry Sidney, had been with the Queen night and day attending to all her needs, caught the smallpox from her and was severely disfigured. I heard that Lady Mary asked leave to retire from Court, permission which could scarcely be denied in the circumstances was given, and she went to her family estate at Penshurst, from where she never really wanted to emerge again. Her reward for nursing Elizabeth, who was not likely to forget it. One of the Queen's virtues was her loyalty to those who served her; besides, Mary Sidney was her beloved Robert's sister.

Walter said that people again believed that a marriage between the Queen and Robert might now take place.

"But why should it be acceptable now when it was not a short time ago?" I demanded.

"It's not such a short while," Walter reminded me, "and the people are so delighted to have her well again that they would be prepared to accept anything. They want her married. They want an heir to the throne. Her recent illness has shown how dangerous it could be if she died without heirs."

"She won't die until she wants to," I said grimly.

"That," retorted Walter coolly, "is in the hands of God."

So the Court was soon as it was before her illness. Robert was back in favor, always at her side, always hopeful, I had no doubt; and perhaps more so than ever now that it was being hinted that people would accept a marriage between them.

The Queen was in high spirits—happy to be well again. She pardoned the Pole brothers, a gesture which was typical of her. She wanted to show her people how merciful she was and that she bore no grudges to any. The Poles were exiled, though—and the Court was gay again.

But there was no announcement of her betrothal to Robert.

It was galling to receive the news through Walter and those who came to Chartley to visit us, because they never told me all I wanted to know. As soon as I had recovered from Dorothy's birth, I promised myself, I would go to Court again. The Queen would welcome me and I rehearsed how I would kneel before her with tears of joy in my eyes at her recovery. I knew how to produce those tears with the juice of certain plants. Then I would cajole her into giving me her version of events and I would tell her how a quiet life in the country was no worthy substitute for her royal apartments. She was always a little envious of babies—but perhaps not so much of girls.

She received me with a show of affection and I did my scene, implying thankfulness for her recovery, which I managed very well, and which I fancied touched her, for she kept me at her side and gave me some plum-colored velvet to have made into a gown and a lace ruff with a wire underpropper to go with it. It was a mark of her favor.

It was while I was at Court that news came that the Archduke Charles—that suitor whom she had declined—was now seeking the hand of Mary Queen of Scots. The intensity of Elizabeth's feelings towards that royal rival would not be disguised. She was inordinately interested in Mary. If she gleaned any information about her, she would be tense with concentration; and she never forgot any detail of what she had been told. She was jealous of Mary not because of the Scottish Queen's unquestionable legitimacy, nor because of her claim to the throne, but because Mary was reputed to be one of the most beautiful women in the world; and the fact that she was also a queen made comparison natural. That Mary was beautiful and talented, there was no doubt; but I felt sure she could not have possessed one hundredth part of the shrewd cunning and that heaven-sent cleverness of our own Lady Elizabeth.

I fell to thinking how different their lives had been. Mary, the petted darling of the French Court, fawned on, loved by her father-in-law and his mistress Diane de Poitiers, who was of far greater importance than Queen Catherine de' Medici, doted on by her young husband, beloved of the poets. And our Elizabeth, growing through her uneasy childhood and girlhood, never very far from death. I think it was probably this which had made her what she was; and in that case it was doubtless worthwhile.

It was amazing that one who was as clever as she was could not have seen fit to hide her jealous rage because the Archduke was seeking Mary's hand. Had she suffered it in private it would have been a different matter, but she sent for William Cecil, was abusive in her reference to that "Rake of Austria" and declared that she would never give her consent to a marriage between him and Mary, and she wished Mary to be advised that since she considered herself heiress to the crown of England, it behooved her to take heed of the opinion of England's Queen.

Cecil was afraid that the Queen's outburst would be ridiculed by the foreigners concerned and when the Emperor of Austria wrote to the effect that his son had been insulted and he had no intention of submitting himself to that indignity again, the Queen smirked and nodded.

Robert must have felt his chances were good at that time. I caught glimpses of him now and then and there was no doubt that he was very sure of himself. He was constantly with the Queen, alone in her apartments; so it was small wonder that people like Mrs. Dowe believed the rumors which were spread about them. But it seemed that Elizabeth was still thinking of the Amy Dudley affair and that was why she went on holding back.

When we heard that another of her suitors, Eric of Sweden, had fallen romantically in love, she could not stop herself repeating the story over and over again. He had seen a beautiful girl named Kate selling nuts outside the palace and had become so enamored of her that he had married her. It was like a fairy story, said Elizabeth. So touching. But what great stroke of good fortune for poor Kate that she had refused Eric! Indeed, she said, Kate should be as grateful to her as she was to her lover. But it was clear that a man who could marry a nut seller was no mate for the Queen of England.

She loved to discuss her suitors. She would often make me sit beside her while she went over details of the offers of marriage which had been made to her. "And here I am, still a virgin," she sighed.

"But not for long, Your Majesty," I said.

"Think you not so?"

"There are so many seeking the honor, Madam. You will, I doubt not, decide to accept one and make him the happiest man on earth."

The tawny eyes were half closed. I guessed she was thinking of her Sweet Robin.

Ever since she had heard that the Archduke Charles had offered himself as a husband for Mary Queen of Scots, she had made much of the Scottish Ambassador, Sir James Melville. She played the virginals for him—she performed with great skill on this instrument—she sang and above all she danced, for of all social activities, dancing was her favorite and, as I have said, the one at which she most excelled. She was so slender and she carried herself with such dignity that in a room of dancers she would always have been selected as the Queen.

She would demand of Melville how he had liked a performance and always there would be a request to know how it compared with that of his mistress, the Queen of Scots.

I, and other women of the Court, used to laugh at the manner in which poor Melville strove to give the right answer which would compliment Elizabeth without denigrating in one whit the accomplishments of Mary. Elizabeth would seek to trap him, and sometimes she would snap at him because she could not lure him into admitting her superiority.

It was astonishing how such a woman could be so concerned with the vanities of life; but of course she was vain. She and Robert were matched in that. They both believed themselves to be supreme: he, certain that in due course he would overcome her resistance—and when he married I reckoned that he promised himself he would be the master—and she determined always to call the tune. The crown glittered between them. She could not bear to share it with anyone, and he was so determined in his pursuit—of the woman or the crown? I thought I knew, but I wondered whether Elizabeth did.

One day she was clearly in a good mood. She was smiling to herself while we dressed her—for when I was at Court I was brought back to the bedchamber. I think she liked to have me there to gossip to. It was said that she liked the occasional tart retort for which I was getting a reputation. After all, if I went too far I could always be given a black look, a blow, or one of those painful nips which she was so fond of administering as a warning to those who she considered had taken advantage of the favor she had shown them. •

She was smiling and nodding to herself; and when I saw her with Robert I could tell by the manner in which she looked at him that whatever was in her mind concerned him.

When the secret was out none of us could believe it.

She had long had the welfare of her Scottish cousin close to her heart and she made it known that she believed she had found the perfect bridegroom for her. It was a man whom she prized above all others, one who had already proved himself her most faithful servant. The Queen of Scots would know how deeply she esteemed her when she offered her the finest man in her kingdom as a husband. None other than Robert Dudley.

I heard that Robert gave way to furious rage when he heard. It must have seemed like the death knell to all his hopes. He knew very well that Mary would never accept him, and the fact that Elizabeth offered him showed that she had no intention of accepting him herself.

There was a deep silence in the apartments that day. Everyone was afraid to speak. It was not long before Robert came striding in. He pushed everyone aside and went into her private chamber, and we heard their shouting as they talked together. I doubt there has ever been such a scene between Queen and subject, but of course Robert was no ordinary subject, and we could all understand his fury.

Suddenly they were quieter and we wondered what that meant. When Robert came out he looked at none of us but he had an air of confidence, and we all wondered what had happened between them to produce that.

We soon learned.

It could not be expected that a Queen could consider marrying the mere son of a duke. Lord Robert must be elevated. Elizabeth had therefore decided to bestow honors on him and he was to be made Earl of Leicester and Baron of Denbigh—a title which had never been used by anyone but a royal personage—and the estates of Kenilworth and Astel Grove were to be his.

Everyone was smirking behind their hands. Of course she was not going to relinquish her Sweet Robin. She wanted to do him honor and this seemed a good way of doing it while, at the same time, she insulted the Queen of Scots.

We at Court understood her motive, but the people would see it differently. She had suggested a match between the Queen of Scots and Robert Dudley. How wrong all the scandalous gossip had been about the murder of Dudley's wife! The Queen was certainly not involved, for she had not married him when she could and now she was offering him to the Queen of Scots!

Our clever Queen had achieved her purpose. Robin received his honors and people ceased to lay part of the blame for the murder of his wife at the door of the Queen.

I was present when the honors were bestowed on Robert. It was a very ceremonial occasion indeed which took place in Westminster Palace; and I had rarely seen the Queen in such a happy mood. Of course he looked magnificent in his glittering doublet, his satin bombasted breeches and his elegant ruff of silver lace. He held his head high; he would come out of that hall a much richer and more influential man than he had gone in. A short while ago he had thought all hope of marriage with the Queen was over since she had announced her determination to banish him to Scotland. But now he knew that she had no intention of doing this and it had just been a ruse in order that she could comfortably shower gifts on him—an assurance of her affection when he had feared her indifference.

Elizabeth entered the hall a scintillating figure, love for Robert softening her face, making her almost beautiful. Before her, carrying the sword of state, walked a very tall young man—little more than a boy—who, it was whispered to me, was Lord Darnley. I scarcely looked at him then, my attention being all for Robert, although I should have paid more attention to him if I had known what part he would play in the future.

All eyes, of course, were on that pair, the two principal actors in the scene; and I marveled as I had so often in the past—and was to do in the future—at the Queen's blatant exposure of her feelings for him.

Robert knelt before her while she fastened the mantle about his neck, and as she did so, to the amazement of all, she put her fingers inside the collar and tickled his neck as though she found the desire to touch him in this way irresistible.

I was not the only one who noticed. I saw Sir James Melville and the French Ambassador exchange glances, and I thought: This will be reported throughout Europe and in Scotland. The Queen of Scots had already professed herself to have been insulted by the suggested match and referred to Robert as the Queen's Horse Master.

Elizabeth did not seem to care. She turned to Melville, for she must have seen the look he exchanged with the Frenchman. There was very little she missed.

"Well," she cried, "what think you of my Lord Leicester, eh? Methinks you like better yon lang lad." She nodded towards Lord Darnley and I saw Melville flinch a little. I did not understand then, but later I realized she was letting him know that she was aware of the supposedly secret negotiations which were in progress to marry Mary of Scotland to Lord Darnley. It was characteristic of her that while she tickled Robert's neck she was considering the outcome of a marriage between Mary and the tall young man.

Later she pretended to be against it while at the same time doing everything she could to bring it about. She had summed up Darnley—not yet twenty years old, very slender so that he looked even taller than he in fact was, a pretty boy with round, rather prominent blue eyes and soft skin as delicately colored as a peach. The effect was charming enough for anyone who liked pretty boys. He had a veneer of pleasant manners, too, but there was something peevish and even cruel about those slack lips. He played the lute well and danced charmingly, and of course he had a flimsy claim to the succession, for his mother was the daughter of Margaret Tudor, Henry VIII's sister.

To compare him with Robert was to call attention to his weakness. I could see that the Queen reveled in the comparison and was as determined as Melville that secretly nothing should be placed in the way of Darnley's going to Scotland while outwardly she would pretend to be against it.

After the ceremony, when she retired to her private apartments, Robert—now Earl of Leicester and on the way to becoming the most powerful man in the kingdom—visited her.

I sat in the women's chambers while everyone talked of the ceremony and how fine the Earl of Leicester had looked and how proud the Queen had been of him. Had we noticed how she tickled his neck? She doted on him so much that she could not hide her love for him at a public ceremony before officials and ambassadors. What must she be like in private?

We giggled together. "It won't be long now," declared someone. Many of them were ready to wager that this was to prepare the way. It would be easier for a queen to marry the Earl of Leicester than it would to have taken Lord Robert Dudley. When Elizabeth had suggested he was a fit bridegroom for a queen, she had not meant Mary of Scotland but Elizabeth of England.

I was alone with her later. She asked me what I had thought of the ceremony, and I replied that it had seemed very impressive.

"The Earl of Leicester looked very handsome, did he not?"

"Exceedingly so, Madam."

"I never saw a more handsome man, did you? Nay, do not answer me that. As a virtuous wife you would not think he compared with Walter Devereux."

She was looking at me sharply and I wondered whether I had betrayed my interest in Robert.

"They are two very admirable men, Your Majesty."

She laughed and gave me a playful pinch. "To be truthful," she said, "there is not a man at Court who can compare with the Earl of Leicester. But you see Walter as his equal and that pleases me. I like not unfaithful wives."

I felt a twinge of uneasiness. But how could she know the effect Robert had on me? I had never betrayed it surely, and he had never glanced my way. Perhaps she thought that all women must desire him.

She went on: "I offered him to the Queen of Scotland. She did not think him worthy of her. She had never seen him or she would have changed her mind. I paid her the greatest compliment I could pay anyone. I offered her the Earl of Leicester, and I will tell you something: If I had not decided to die unmarried and in the virgin state the only man I would have married would have been Robert Dudley."

"I know of Your Majesty's affection for him and his for Your Majesty."

"I have told this to the Scottish Ambassador, and do you know what he replied, Lettice?"

I waited respectfully to hear and she went on: "He said, 'Madam, you need not tell me. I know your stately stomach. You think that if you married you would be but Queen of England and now you are both King and Queen. You will not suffer a commander.' "

"And did Your Majesty agree with him?"

She gave me a little push. "I think you know full well."

"I know," I said, "that I count myself fortunate to be connected by blood with your royalty and to serve such a noble lady.''

She nodded. "There are burdens I must accept," she said. "When I saw him standing there before me today, I could have found it in my heart to throw aside my resolutions."

Our eyes met. Those large pupils were searching lamps which looked into my mind. They made me apprehensive then as they were to so often in the future.

"I should always be guided by my destiny," she said. "We must needs accept it... Robert and I."

I felt that she was warning me in a way and I wondered what had been said of me. My attractions had not been impaired by childbearing; in fact I believe they had been enhanced. I had been aware of men's eyes following me, and I had heard it said that I was a very desirable woman.

"I will show you something," she said, and she rose and went to a drawer. She took from it a small package wrapped in paper and on the outside was written in her handwriting: "My Lord's Picture."

She undid it and there was a miniature. Robert's face looked out at me.

" Tis a very fair likeness," she said. "Think you not so?" "None could think it other than my Lord Leicester." "I showed it to Melville and he thought it a good likeness too. He wished to take it to his mistress, for he felt that once she looked on that face she would never be able to refuse him." She laughed slyly. "I would not allow him to have it. It is the only one I have of him, I told Melville, so I could not spare it. I think he understood."

She had handed it to me and now she snatched it rather sharply. She carefully wrapped it up. It was symbolic of her feelings for him. She would never let him go.

There was no doubt that Robert had believed that, having been so honored by the Queen, the next step would be marriage, and I too believed that this was really what she intended, despite her insistence on her determination to remain in the virgin state. He was very rich now—one of the richest men in England—and he immediately set about improving the castle of Kenilworth. It was only to be expected that he gave himself airs, and he was certainly on very familiar terms with the Queen. Her bedchamber was in some ways a state chamber, and after the custom of ages she had received ministers in it, but Robert continued to enter unannounced and unbidden. Once he snatched the shift from the lady whose duty it was to hand it to her and gave it to her himself; he had been seen to kiss her while she was in bed.

I was reminded of what I had heard of Elizabeth's past with Thomas Seymour when he had made free in her bedchamber; but I was growing more and more convinced that there had been no physical lovemaking between them. Elizabeth was always greatly amused by the titillation of the senses—hers and those of her admirers—and some said this was how she intended her relationships to remain.

There were a great many rumors about her and naturally these strayed far from the truth; but her matrimonial cavortings were the wonder of the world. There could never have been a queen who had been wooed so often and never won; and while this provided the utmost and enjoyable entertainment for the Queen, it was decidedly embarrassing and unflattering for her suitors.

Robert, at the head of these, was beginning to be exasperated. They were both of an age which was no longer young and surely if the Queen was going to get a healthy heir it was time she married.

As a queen she knew the importance of this and yet she dallied. When her hand had been sought by foreign princes it had been thought that she declined them because she wanted Robert Dudley; but now that time was passing and she showed no inclination to marry, all but Robert's most bitter enemies would have preferred to see her married to him since she certainly appeared to be in love with him.

However, she held back, and then people began to wonder if there was some other reason why she refused to marry. It was whispered that there was something about her which was different from other women. She could never bear children, it was hinted and, knowing this, it seemed pointless for her to marry a man merely to let him share her throne. It was whispered that her laundresses had let out the secret that she had so few monthly periods that the implication was that she could not bear children. I was of the opinion though that not one of her laundresses would have dared betray such a secret. It was a mystery, for if ever a woman was in love Elizabeth was in love at that time with Robert Dudley; and the odd thing was that she made no effort to conceal it.

I used to wonder whether her upbringing had had some effect on her. She had been a baby of three when her mother had died, but she was old enough—being exceptionally precocious—to have missed her. It seemed hardly likely that her gay and clever mother spent a great deal of time with her daughter, but I imagined the visits she did pay would have been memorable to the child. Anne Boleyn had been noted for her elegant taste and I had heard that she took a delight in dressing her daughter in beautiful garments. Then suddenly she would have disappeared. I could picture the quick-witted little girl asking questions and not being satisfied with the answers. The lovely clothes came no more and instead her governess had had to send special pleas to the King for a few necessary garments of which his daughter was in urgent need. A father would be formidable who had beheaded two wives. One stepmother had died in childbirth, another had been despised and divorced; and lastly there had been Katharine Parr, the kind and lovely Dowager Queen whose husband she had philandered with to such an extent that she had been dismissed from their home. Then had followed a life spent in and out of prisons with the executioner's ax suspended precariously over her head. And at last to come to the throne. No wonder she was determined to keep it. No wonder, with such a father, she distrusted the passions of men. Could this be the reason why she was not going to surrender one small part of her power ... even to her beloved Robert?

But he was growing very restive as the months passed and we often overheard sharp words between them. Once we heard her reminding him that she was the Queen and he had better take care. After that he would go away sullenly and she would fret for him, and he would come back and they would be friends again.

There was a great deal of talk about what was happening in Scotland.

Mary had married Darnley, much to Elizabeth's secret amusement although she pretended to be incensed about it. She used to laugh about Mary with Robert. "She'll sup sorrow with a long spoon," she said, "and to think that she might have had you, Robert."

I believed she wanted to punish Mary for not taking Robert although she, Elizabeth, had no intention that she should.

She was now winning the true respect of the wily politicians around her. Men like William Cecil, Chancellor Nicholas Bacon and the Earl of Sussex began to see in her an astute politician. Her position in the beginning had been an uneasy one. How could she feel safe when the slur of illegitimacy could be flung at her at any time? There could never have been a ruler in a more vulnerable position than Elizabeth. She was about thirty-three years of age at this time and somehow she had managed to find a place in her people's hearts which rivaled that which her father had held. In spite of everything he had done he had never lost the people's favor; he might squander the country's wealth on ventures such as the Field of the Cloth of Gold; he might take six wives and murder two of them; but he was still their hero and their King and there had never been a serious attempt to depose him. Elizabeth was his daughter in looks and in manner; her voice resembled his; she swore as he had done; everywhere she went it was said: "There goes great Harry's daughter," and she knew that this was one of the greatest advantages she possessed. No one could deny the fact that she was Henry's daughter and that there had been a time when he had accepted her as legitimate.

But she must be wary and she was. Mary Queen of Scots was a claimant to the throne. Therefore what better than to marry her to a weak dissolute youth who would help to being Scotland low and disgust those who might be inclined to favor Mary. Catharine and Mary Grey—Lady Jane's sisters—were both in the Tower, having married without the Queen's consent. Thus she had arranged that those in England who might be considered to have a greater claim to the throne than she had were safely under lock and key.

News came that the Queen of Scots was pregnant. This was disconcerting. If Mary showed herself fruitful by bearing a son, people would begin comparing her with the Queen of England. She was downcast until news came of that fateful supper in Holyrood House in Edinburgh when, before the eyes of the heavily pregnant Queen, her Italian secretary Rizzio had been murdered. She pretended to be shocked and angry when the suggestion that Rizzio was Mary's lover was mentioned, but she was secretly pleased. At the same time she was wistful. Oh, she was an enigma, this Queen of ours.

The Court was at Greenwich—a favorite palace of the Queen's because she had been born there. The presence chamber here was very fine, hung with rich tapestry, and she always enjoyed showing newcomers the room in which she was born. She would stand in that room, a strange expression in her eyes, and I wondered whether she was thinking of her mother's lying there, exhausted, with her beautiful black hair spread on the pillow. Was she thinking of the agony of Anne Boleyn when she was told: "It is a girl" when a boy would have made all the difference to her future. There would be a fierce determination in her face sometimes as though she were telling herself she would prove better than any boy.

Well, there we were on this occasion—she in one of her magnificent dresses from her overfull wardrobe, white and crimson satin sewn all over with pearls the size of birds' eggs, and a ruff in which tiny diamonds glittered like dewdrops.

She was dancing with Thomas Heneage, a very handsome man to whom she was beginning to show a great deal of favor, when William Cecil entered. There was that about his demeanor which suggested that he had important news to impart, and the Queen signed to him to come to her at once. He whispered to her and I saw her turn pale. I was near her, dancing with Christopher Hatton, one of the finest dancers at Court.

"Your Majesty is unwell?" I whispered.

Several of her women gathered round, and she looked at us mournfully saying: "The Queen of Scots is lighter of a fair son and I am but a barren stock."

Her mouth was drawn down and she looked sad and pale. Cecil whispered something to her and she nodded.

"Send Melville to me," she said, "that I may tell him of my pleasure."

When the Scottish Ambassador was brought to her all vestige of sadness left her. She gaily told him that she had heard the news and rejoiced in it. "My sister of Scotland is indeed blessed," she said.

"It is a miracle of God that the child has been safely delivered," replied Melville.

"Ah yes. Such strife there has been in Scotland, but this fine boy will be her comfort."

When Melville asked if she would be godmother to the Prince she replied: "Right gladly."

Later I saw her eyes follow Robert, and I thought: She can't go on like this. A son born to the Queen of Scots has brought home to her so clearly her need to give an heir to England. She'll take Robert Dudley now, for surely she always intended to have him in the end.

I was in such high favor with the Queen that New Year that she gave me thirteen yards of black velvet to be made into a gown, which was a costly present.

We were at Greenwich for the Twelfth Night festivities. I was in a mood of excitement because I believed that during the last few weeks Robert Dudley had become aware of me. Often in a crowded room I would look up suddenly and find his eyes on me. A look would pass between us and we would smile.

There was no doubt that Robert was not only the most handsome but the richest and most powerful man at Court. There was a virility about him which was immediately recognizable. I was never quite sure whether he attracted me so forcibly originally because of these qualities or because the Queen was so enamored of him, and to become too friendly with him would mean incurring her wrath. Any meeting between us would have to be conducted with the utmost secrecy, and if it ever came to the Queen's ears there would be a violent storm which could be the end of both Robert's favor and my own. Therefore the prospect was one of intense excitement. I had always enjoyed taking risks.

I was not so foolish as not to know that if the Queen had summoned him he would immediately forget me. Robert's first love was the crown and he was a single-minded man. What he wanted he wanted fiercely and he did all in his power to get. Unfortunately for him there was only one way of sharing that crown. Elizabeth alone could give it to him, and as each day passed she was showing herself more reluctant to give him what he wanted.

He was growing visibly angry now. One could observe the change in him. So many times she had raised his hopes and procrastination followed. He must be realizing at last that there was a great possibility of her never marrying him at all. He had taken to staying away from the Court for a few days, and this always angered her. Whenever she went into a room where people were gathered together, she always looked round for him and if he were absent she would be irritable and when she retired one of us would most certainly receive a blow for our incompetence, which was really due to Robert's absence.

Sometimes she sent for him and demanded to know why he had dared absent himself. Then he would reply that it seemed to him that his presence was no longer necessary to her. They would quarrel; we used to listen to them as they shouted at each other and we marveled at Robert's temerity. Sometimes he would stalk out of the apartments and she would shout after him that she was glad to be rid of him. But then she would send for him and there would be reconciliations and he would be her Sweet Robin for a while. But never would she give way on the all-important question.

I guessed, though, that he was beginning to lose hope and to realize that she had no intention of marrying him. I saw her pat him, caress him, stroke his hair and kiss him—but it stopped at that. She would never allow lovemaking to reach a natural climax. I was beginning to think there was something abnormal about her in this respect.

Then came the occasion for which it seemed to me at the time I had been waiting all my life. There was no doubt that I had become obsessed by Robert. Perhaps it was seeing them together so much that made me more and more impatient with them because they played at being lovers—or at least she did—in a manner which I thought foolish. Perhaps I wanted revenge for those painful nips and slaps I had suffered. Perhaps I wanted to show her that in a certain field I could compete even with a queen and be the victor. It was irksome to a nature like mine continually to appear humble and grateful for her favor.

This occasion stands out clearly in my memory.

I was present with her tiring women while we prepared her for the evening. She was seated before her mirror in her chemise and linen petticoat looking at her reflection. A smiled played about her lips, and she was obviously contemplating something which amused her. I imagined she was thinking of bestowing the title of King of the Bean on Robert. This was part of the Twelfth Night revelries and the chosen man was allowed to act as he liked throughout the evening. He could ask anyone present to do what he asked and they must obey.

She was almost certain to bestow this honor on Robert as she had in the past, and I imagined she was thinking of this while we dressed her. She looked at the Nuremberg egg watch in its crystal case and said: "Come, you are slow. What are we waiting for?"

One of the tiring women came to her with a tray on which were pieces of false hair. She selected one and her hair was eventually dressed to her satisfaction.

The next operation was to get her into her privy coat of bone and buckram. Nobody wanted to do this, for she had to be tight-laced and was apt to be irritable if she was too tightly laced and equally so if her waist did not appear as small as she liked it. But this night she was absentminded and we went through the procedure with no comment from her.

I helped to fix the whalebone hips and we put on her petticoats. Then she sat down while a selection of ruffs was brought to her. She chose one of the new picadillie style with elaborate folds of pointed lace, but before it was put on her overgown was donned. It was very elaborate on this night, and she glittered and sparkled in the light of the cressets and candles.

I brought her girdle to her and fixed it about her waist. She watched me attentively while I made sure that her fan, pomander and looking glass were attached to it.

I tried to read the meaning behind her penetrating gaze. I knew that I was especially attractive that night and that my dress-conspicuous by its very simplicity—was more becoming to me than hers, for all its brilliance, was to her. The color of my undergown was a deep midnight blue and the seamstress had had the clever idea of decorating it with stars worked in silver thread. My upper gown was of a lighter shade of blue and toned exquisitely, while my puffed sleeves were the same color as the undergown. The material was cut away at the neck and I wore a solitary diamond on a golden chain; above this was my ruff of the most delicate lace which, like my undergown, was lightened by starry silver knots.

The Queen's eyes narrowed a little. I looked too attractive to please her. Inwardly I laughed with triumph. She could not scold me for overdressing as she did some of her ladies.

She said: "I see you wear the new virago sleeves, Cousin. I find they add little to a gown."

I lowered my eyes that she might not see the mischief in them. "Yes, Your Majesty," I said demurely.

"Come, then. Let us be on."

I was with her when she joined the company, I walking discreetly several paces behind her. Such occasions always impressed me deeply, for I was still new enough to Court life to be overawed by them. There was immediate silence when she appeared and people parted to make a path for her, which, I had once said to Walter, reminded me of Moses when he parted the Red Sea. If she glanced at a man he fell to his knees, and of course a woman would curtsy to the floor, her eyes lowered until the Queen passed on or bade her rise if she wished to speak to her.

I saw Robert at once and that look passed between us. I knew that I was exceptionally beautiful that night. I was twenty-four, not exactly unhappily married, but dissatisfied; and this dissatisfaction was something the Earl of Leicester shared with me. I was eager for an adventure which would enliven the monotony of my days. I was weary of domesticity in the country. I was not meant to be a faithful wife, I was beginning to fear, and I was obsessed by Robert.

He was about ten years older than I, in his prime at this time. But Robert seemed to be the sort of man whose prime would last throughout his life—or almost. At least he would always be attractive to women.

There were two men on whom the Queen had begun to bestow her smiles; one of them was Thomas Heneage and the other Christopher Hatton. Both of them were extremely handsome. One could pick out those who would find this special favor with the Queen. They were always good-looking and had some particular social grace and they must all dance well. This may imply that she was a lighthearted coquette, for she flirted with these gallants in a manner which was most unqueenly; but she had other favorites in a different category. She relied on men like Cecil and Bacon; she recognized their worth and was a loyal and devoted friend to them. Their positions were in fact more firm than those of the good-looking favorites who could be displaced by an equally good-looking newcomer. Robert was the leading favorite in this field and I often thought that she encouraged the others primarily to discountenance him.

At this time she considered he had taken too much for granted. He had become overbearing since she had bestowed great honors on him, and she wanted to impress on him yet again that it was she who called the tune.

She seated herself and sat smiling at the three men of the moment—Robert, Heneage and Hatton.

One of the pages came in with the Bean on a silver platter and presented it to the Queen. She took it and smiled at the young men ranged about her. Robert was looking at her and was on the point of taking the Bean when the Queen said: "I appoint Sir Thomas Heneage King of the Bean."

It was a tense moment. Sir Thomas, flushed with pleasure, was kneeling before her. Glancing at Robert, I saw his face turn pale and his lips tighten. Then he held his head high and smiled because he knew that everyone would be watching him. Had she not previously delighted to make him her King of the Bean every Twelfth Night since her accession?

There would be gossip. "The Queen has fallen out of love with Leicester," people would say. "She will never marry him now."

I felt almost sorry for Robert, but I was exultant, too—for this was all part of the night's adventure.

Sir Thomas was claiming as his first privilege the right to kiss the Queen's hand. She gave it to him, declaring that no choice was left to her but to obey. But she smiled dotingly on him and I knew she was doing it to anger Robert.

That night I danced with Robert; the pressure of his fingers was firm on mine and the glances we gave each other were full of meaning.

"I have long noticed you at Court," he told me.

"Is that so, my lord?" I answered. "I had been unaware of it, thinking you had only eyes for the Queen."

"It would have been impossible not to see the most beautiful lady of the Court."

"Hush!" I cried mockingly. "You speak treason."

I laughed at him, but as the evening passed he grew ardent. His intentions became so clear that I reminded him that I was a married woman and he as good as a married man. He answered that there were some emotions which were too strong to be denied no matter what bonds attempted to deter them.

Robert was not a witty man; he was not given to flowery language or quick retorts. He was direct, strong, determined and he made no secret of the reason for his pursuit of me. I was not displeased. My ardor matched his, for instinctively I knew that with Robert I could reach a fulfillment I had never attained before. I had been a virgin when I married Walter and thus far had strayed from the paths of marital virtue only in my thoughts. But I wanted this man with a fierceness which matched his desire for me. I could tell myself that he would take me out of pique, but I was determined to prove to him that, having tried me, he would not be able to do without me. I thought of the Queen's louring expression when she quarreled with Robert. I knew too that if she could see and hear me now she would be ready to kill me. That was one of the reasons why I had to go on.

He said that we must meet in secret. I knew what that meant, and I didn't care. I abandoned caution and conscience. I only cared that he should become my lover.

The Queen danced with Christopher Hatton—the best of all dancers. They had the floor to themselves and this was what she loved. When they had finished everyone applauded with great verve and declared that even the Queen had surpassed herself.

Thomas Heneage, King of the Bean, said that as they had seen dancing such as had never before been equaled, he was going to forbid anyone else to take the floor for a while because it would be sacrilege even to tread on that ground where the royal feet had trod.

I smirked inwardly. This fulsome flattery always amazed me. I should have thought that a woman as astute as Elizabeth undoubtedly was would have laughed it to scorn; but she never did and took it as though it were obvious fact.

Instead of dancing, said our King of the Bean, we should have a game called Question and Answer and he would ask the questions and select those who were to answer them.

When a man who has been great is seen to slip a little way, his enemies can scarcely wait to glory over his downfall. They reminded me of crows sitting on a tree by a gallows where a man is dying. Robert had been openly shown to be enjoying less favor than usual, and therefore everyone, it seemed, was eager to humiliate him further. Rarely had a man engendered such envy, for I doubted that any reigning sovereign had ever shown such favor to a subject as the Queen had to Robert Dudley.

It was inevitable that Heneage should have a question for Robert, and the assembly waited breathlessly for it.

"My Lord Leicester," said Heneage, "I command you to ask a question of Her Majesty."

Robert bowed his head and waited for it.

"Which is the more difficult to erase from the mind, an evil opinion created by a wicked informer or jealousy?"

I watched Robert's face, for I was standing near to him. The manner in which he concealed his anger was really rather commendable.

He turned to the Queen. His voice was cool. "Your Majesty hears the command of King Bean, and he being your chosen King of the Night, I can do nothing but obey. So I ask you, in your wisdom, to give us an answer."

When he had repeated the question the Queen looked grave and, smiling affectionately at him, answered: "My lord, I would say that they are both hard to be rid of, but that jealousy is the harder."

Robert was so angry to be publicly held up to ridicule, and the fact that the Queen seemed to have allied herself with Heneage was doubly infuriating.

He did not go to the Queen again that night. When many people were dancing, he took my hand and drew me out of the chamber and away to a small room of which he knew. He pulled me in and shut the door.

"My lord," I said, and I could hear the trill of excitement in my voice, "we must have been seen."

He seized me roughly then. His lips were near my own. "And if they have seen us," he said, "I should not care. I care for nothing ... but this."

He had taken the ruff from my neck and thrown it from him. His hands were on my shoulders, forcing my dress from them.

"My lord, would you have me stand naked before you?" I asked.

"Aye," he cried. "Aye, that I would. So have I seen you many times in my dreams."

I was as eager for him as he was for me and there was no hiding it.

"You are beautiful ... beautiful as I knew you would be," he murmured. "You are all that I want, Lettice... ."

He, too, was all that I had dreamed he would be. It was an experience such as I had never known before. I could not help being aware that on his side it was made up of anger as well as desire, and this infuriated me while at the same time it did nothing to stem my passion. I was determined to show him that never could he know such a mistress as I would be. I was going to make him as reckless as I was. He should be as ready to risk losing the Queen's favor as I was to break my marriage vows.

I think I succeeded temporarily. I sensed the wonder in him, the delight, the knowledge that we two were made for each other.

I knew that he could not tear himself away although it was obvious that he would be missed. I exulted in this; it seemed to me that nature had endowed me with special powers to attract men and bind them to me. And I was born to make love with this man and he with me.

We were enthralled by each other, and I felt that our discovery must be obvious for all to see, and I confess that, when eventually we did return to the ballroom, I began to feel uneasy.

The Queen must have missed Robert. Had she noticed, too, that I had been absent? I should soon discover, I was sure. A cold fear touched me. What if I should be dismissed from Court?

She gave no sign during the days which followed. Robert did not come to Court, and I knew that she missed him. She became very irritable and volunteered the remark that some people imagined they could absent themselves without leave and would have to be taught otherwise.

I was with her when news came that there was trouble between the Earl of Leicester and Sir Thomas Heneage. Leicester had sent word to Heneage that he would visit him with a stick as he had a lesson to administer, to which Heneage replied that he would be welcome and a sword would be awaiting him.

Elizabeth was furious, and there was fear in her fury. She was afraid that Robert would fight a duel and be killed, and she had no intention of allowing her favorite men to behave so foolishly. She sent for Heneage and we heard her shouting at him. Did he think he could defy her? It was dangerous to talk of swordplay, she told him. If he behaved so foolishly again someone else might be talking of an ax.

I think she boxed his ears, for when he came out those appendages looked very red and he was completely subdued.

Then it was Robert's turn. I could not resist listening.

She was very angry with him—more so than with Heneage.

"God's death," she cried, "I have wished you well but my favor is not so locked up in you that others may not have a share of it. I have other servants besides you. Remember there is one mistress here and no master. Those whom I have raised up can as easily be lowered. And this shall happen to those who become impudent through my favor."

I heard him say quietly: "Your Majesty, I beg leave to retire."

"It's yours," she shouted.

And as he came from her chamber he saw me and looked at me. It was an invitation to follow him and as soon as I could I slipped away and found him in that chamber which had previously been the scene of our passion.

He seized me and held me, laughing aloud.

"As you see," he said, "I am out of favor with the Queen."

"But not with me," I said.

"Then I am not unhappy."

He locked the door and it was as though a frenzy seized him. He was mad with desire for me and so was I for him, and although I knew that his anger with the Queen mingled with his need for me, I did not care. I wanted this man. He had haunted my thoughts from the first moment I had seen him riding beside the Queen at her accession; and if his desire for me was in some measure due to her treatment of him, she was part of my need of him too. Even in our moments of extreme ecstasy it was as though she was there with us.

We lay together, knowing full well that it was a dangerous thing to do. Were we to be discovered we could both be ruined, and we did not care; and because our need for each other transcended our fear of the consequences, it heightened our passion, intensified those sensations which I at least—and I think the same applied to him—believed could come to me through no other.

What was this emotion between us? The recognition of two like natures? It was overwhelming desire and passion and not least of our emotions was the awareness of danger. The fact that each of us could risk our future for this encounter carried our ecstasy to even greater heights.

We lay exhausted, yet triumphant in some way. We should neither of us ever forget this experience. We were bound together by it for the rest of our lives and whatever should happen to us we should never forget.

"I shall see you again ere long," he said soberly.

"Yes," I answered.

"This is a fair meeting place."

"Until we are discovered."

"Are you afraid of that?"

"If I were I should count it worthwhile."

I had known he was the man for me as soon as I had seen him.

"You're looking smug, Lettice," said the Queen. "What has happened to make you thus?" "I could not say that anything has, Your Majesty."

"I thought you might be with child again."

"God forbid," I cried in real fear.

"Come, you have but two ... and girls. Walter wants a boy, I know."

"I want a little rest from childbearing, Madam."

She gave me one of her little taps on the arm. "And you're a wife who gets what she wants, I'll warrant."

She was watching me closely. Could she possibly suspect? If she did I should be drummed out of the Court.

Robert remained aloof from her, and although this sometimes angered her, I was sure that she was determined to teach him a lesson. As she had said, her favor was not so locked up in any man that he could dare take advantage of her fondness. Sometimes I thought she was afraid of that potent attractiveness—of which I had firsthand knowledge—and she liked to whip herself into a fury against him to prevent herself falling completely victim to his desires.

I did not see him as often as I should have liked. He did come once or twice unobtrusively to Court and we met and made passionate love in the private room. But I could sense that frustration in him and I knew that what he wanted above all things was not a woman but a crown.

He went to Kenilworth, which he was turning into one of the most magnificent castles in the country. He said that he wished I could go with him and that if I had had no husband we could have married. But I wondered whether he would have talked of marriage if it had not been safe to do so, for I knew that he had not given up hope of marrying the Queen.

At Court his enemies were starting to plot against him. They clearly thought he was in decline. The Duke of Norfolk—a man I found excessively dull—was a particular enemy. Norfolk was a man of little ability. He had strong principles and was weighed down by his admiration for his own ancestry, which he believed— and I suppose he was right in this—was more noble than the Queen's, for the Tudors had sneaked to the throne in a very backdoor manner. Vitally brilliantly clever people they might be, but some of the ancient nobility were deeply conscious of their own families' superiority and none more than Norfolk. Elizabeth was well aware of this and, like her father, ready to nip it in the bud when it appeared, but she could not stop the blossoms flowering in secret. Poor Norfolk, he was a man with a sense of duty and tried always to do the right thing, but it invariably seemed the wrong thing ... for Norfolk.

For such a man it was galling to see the rise of Robert to the premier position in the country, which he felt because of his birth belonged to him, and there had been one occasion not very long before this when a quarrel had flared up between Norfolk and Leicester.

There was nothing Elizabeth liked better than to see her favorite men jousting or playing games, which called attention not only to their skill but to their physical perfections. She would sit for hours watching and admiring their handsome bodies; and there was none she had liked to see in action more than Robert.

On this occasion there had been an indoor tennis match and Robert had drawn Norfolk as a partner. Robert was winning, for he had exceptional skill in all sports. I was sitting with the Queen in that lower gallery which Henry VIII had had built for spectators, for he too had excelled at the game and enjoyed being watched.

The Queen had leaned forward. Her eyes had never left Robert, and when he scored a point she had called out "Bravo" while during Norfolk's less frequent successes she was silent, which must have been very depressing for England's premier duke.

The game was so fast that the contestants had become very hot. The Queen seemed to suffer with them, so immersed was she in the play, and she lifted a mockinder—or handkerchief—to wipe her brow. As there was a slight pause in the game and Robert was sweating profusely, he snatched the mockinder from the Queen and mopped his brow with it. It was a natural gesture between people who were very familiar with each other. It was actions like this which gave rise to the stories of their being lovers.

Norfolk, incensed by this act of lese-majesty—and perhaps because he was losing the game and was aware of the royal pleasure in his defeat—lost his temper and shouted: "You impudent dog, sir. How dare you insult the Queen!"

Robert had looked surprised when Norfolk had suddenly lifted his racket as though he would strike him. Robert had caught his arm and twisted it so that Norfolk had called out in pain and dropped the racket.

The Queen had been furious. "How dare you brawl before me?" she had demanded. "My Lord Norfolk must look to it or it may not be only his temper which is lost. How dare you, Sir Norfolk, conduct yourself in such a manner before me?"

Norfolk had bowed and asked leave to retire.

"Retire," the Queen had shouted. "Pray do, and don't come back until I send for you. Methinks you give yourself airs above your station."

It is a dig at his overweening family pride, which she resented as a slur on the Tudors.

"Come, sit beside me, Rob," she had said, "for my Lord Norfolk, knowing himself the loser, has no longer stomach for the game."

Robert, still holding the mockinder, had seated himself beside her, well pleased to have scored over Norfolk, and she took the mockinder from him and smiling had attached it once more to her girdle, implying that the fact that he had used it in no way displeased her.

So it was not to be wondered at that now, when Robert was thought to be in decline, Norfolk headed the long list of his enemies, and it was clear that they were going to exploit the situation to the full.

Attack came from an unexpected quarter and a very unsavory one.

There was a tense atmosphere at Court. The Queen was never happy when Robert was not with her. There could not be any doubt that she loved him; all her emotions concerning him went deep. It had even been obvious in their quarrels how much she was affected by him. I knew that she wanted to call him back to Court, but she was so beleaguered by the marriage question and Robert was growing more and more insistent, that she had to hold him off. If she sent for him it would be a victory for him and she had to make him understand that she called the tune.

I had begun to accept the fact that she was afraid of marriage, although of course the Scottish ambassador had been right when he had declared she wanted to be supreme ruler and share with none.

I felt drawn to her in a way because my thoughts were as full of Robert as hers were and I was watching for his return as hopefully as she was.

Sometimes when I was alone at night I used to contemplate what would happen if we were discovered. Walter would be furious, of course. To hell with Walter! I cared nothing for him. He might divorce me. My parents would be deeply shocked, especially my father. I should be in disgrace. They might even take the children from me. I saw little of them when I was at Court, but they were growing into real people and were beginning to interest me. But chiefly I should have to face the Queen. I used to lie in bed shivering—not only with fear but with a kind of delicious delight. I should like to look into those big tawny eyes and cry: "He has been my lover but never yours. You have a crown and we know he wants that more than anything. I have nothing but myself—yet next to the crown, he wants me. The fact that he has become my lover is a measure of his love for me, for he has dared risk a great deal to do so."

When I was with her I felt less brave. There was that in her which could strike terror into the boldest heart. When I contemplated her fury if we were discovered I wondered what her punishment would be. She would blame me as the seductress, the Jezebel. I had noticed that she always made excuses for Robert.

It was into this atmosphere that the scandal burst. It was like the reopening of an old wound. It touched the Queen almost as surely as it did Robert, and it showed clearly how wise she had been not to marry him, though of course if she had, this man, John Appleyard, would never have dared raise his voice.

The fact was that Amy Robsart's half-brother, John Appleyard, had for some time been spreading the scandal that when Robert Dudley had arranged for his wife to be murdered, he had helped cover up the crime and that, his conscience now worrying him, he felt he should confess his guilt.

Robert's enemies, headed by the Duke of Norfolk, were quick to make the most of this. They took up the case and declared that John Appleyard must tell his story in a court of law.

There was a campaign of persecution and everyone was saying that Leicester's brief glory was over.

Elizabeth talked to me about the scandal. She always watched me closely when Robert's name was mentioned and I wondered if I had betrayed anything.

"What think you, Cousin Lettice, of this matter?" she asked. "Norfolk and some of his friends seem to think that Robert should be made to answer these charges against him."

"I think they are like vultures, Madam," I said.

"Vultures indeed! You speak as though the Earl of Leicester were a rotting corpse."

"He is without your favor now, Madam, and though his body may appear to be in good health, it is his spirit which is dying."

"He's not food for the vultures yet, I promise you. Was he concerned in this murder, do you think?"

"Your Majesty's knowledge of the matter would, as in all others, be greater than my own."

I often marveled at my own temerity. One of these days my tongue would carry me into disaster. Fortunately she had not seen the significance behind that remark or if she did ignored it.

"We must be watchful of our enemies, Lettice," she said, "and I think Robin's are gathering around him fast."

"I fear so, but he is strong and will confute them, I doubt not."

"We miss Robert Dudley at our Court," she said wistfully. "What think you, Lettice?"

"I think Your Majesty does indeed miss him."

"And some of my women miss him too, doubtless."

That piercing look—what did it mean? What did she know? How would she act if she discovered we had been lovers? She would brook no rivals. And I had lain with him behind locked doors and broken my marriage vows. The Queen's wrath would be terrible.

She did not pursue the subject, but I knew she went on thinking of Robert.

He was in danger now. If Appleyard swore in a court of justice that Robert Dudley had bribed him to cover up the murder of his wife, he would be finished. Even the Queen could not condone a murder.

It was like her to act precisely at the right moment.

She sent for him to come to Court.

He came, looking pale and not quite his arrogant self. I was there with other women in the tiring chamber when he was announced. The change in her was miraculous. It made my heart sink, for it was clear that she was as much in love with him as ever.

He was to be brought to her, she said.

She sat admiring her reflection in the mirror, considering for a moment whether she would choose a different dress; but that would mean delay and she was extravagantly clad enough as it was. She took the rouge pad and applied a little to her cheek. The color seemed to add a sparkle to her eyes, but perhaps that was due to the prospect of seeing Robert.

Then she went to the chamber in which she would receive him.

I heard her say: "So you have come to me, at last, you rogue. I want an account of this desertion. Think not I'll brook such treatment."

But her voice was soft and shaken with emotion; and he came forward and, taking her hands, kissed them fervently.

I heard her whisper: "My Eyes ... my Sweet Robin ..."

She noticed me then.

"Leave us!" she snapped.

I had to go, but I went angry, hurt and humiliated. He had not as much as glanced at me.

He was back, and in greater favor than ever. She wanted an account of this scoundrel Appleyard. He had taken gifts from the Earl of Leicester, it seemed, and had made no complaint at the time. It was finally drawn from him that he had been offered bribes to circulate these stories and, said the Queen, for such criminal action he deserved to be punished.

This was one of those occasions when Elizabeth showed her wisdom. John Appleyard had been guilty of lying and trying to incriminate the Earl of Leicester; but she had no wish to pursue the matter. John Appleyard should be given a warning that it would go hard for him if he were ever caught in such conduct again. Now he must thank the Queen for her clemency and his God for his good fortune, for the matter was to be dropped, and no one was to hear more about the death of the Earl's wife.

This was certainly high favor. Robert was always at her side. He gave me a few helpless glances as though to say: I feel the same towards you as ever, but what can I do? The Queen keeps me with her.

The fact was that he had so much to lose now if he was discovered in a liaison, and he was not prepared to risk it. That was the difference in our natures. I was. I became fretful and dissatisfied, and I had many a slap from the Queen because, as she said, she would have no glowering creature about her.

She was worried. Robert's experiences had had their effect on his health, and, having caught a chill, he was confined to his bed.

How anxious we were—both of us. And how frustrated I was, for she could visit him and I could not. I schemed perpetually, trying to discover some way of reaching him—but it was no use.

She went to him, though, and came back complaining that his apartments were damp.

"We must select others," she said; and it struck me that there was something ominous in the manner in which she addressed her remarks to me.

Those she chose were next to her own.

It became clear that she had noticed something between Robert and me because when he recovered a little she sent for me.

"I am going to send you back to Chartley," she said.

I must have looked stricken and shown that I felt sick with frustration.

"I have kept you too long from your husband," she went on.

"But, Madam," I protested, "he is often away from home on your service."

"When he comes back to Chartley he must find a warm bed waiting for him. I dareswear he thinks it is time you gave him a bonny son."

The shrewd eyes were studying me intently.

"It is not good for lusty partners in marriage to be separated for too long," she continued. "There could be mischief such as I do not care to see in my Court. Come, cheer up. Think of your home and your children."

"I shall miss Your Majesty."

"Your family must make up for anything you miss at Court."

My mother was at Court and I went to tell her that I was to leave.

She nodded. "Yes, the Queen has spoken to me. She thinks you are of a nature to need marriage and that it is unwise for you to be kept from your husband for too long. She said that she had noticed lewd looks in the eyes of some people as they rested on you."

"Did she say whose eyes?"

My mother shook her head. "She mentioned no names."

So she knew something. She had seen, and she was dismissing me, for she would not tolerate a rival.

Sadly, angrily, I left for Chartley. Robert made no effort to say goodbye. He was clearly determined not to jeopardize his return to favor.

I began to wonder how far he had used me to arouse the Queen's jealousy. To a woman of my nature that was maddening. I was enraged that in so using me he had brought about my banishment from Court.

I should have hated him. I was nothing to him but a means of gratifying a temporary passion.

I had been a fool.

One day, I promised myself, I will make them both realize that I cannot be treated in this way.

So it was back to Chartley, and how depressed I was as I rode north! How I hated the sight of that stone fortress perched on the hill which was to be my home, for how long I could not say!

My parents had spoken to me before I left Court—and how I envied them for being able to stay there!—my father as Treasurer of the Royal Household and my mother as one of the bedchamber women.

"It is time you went back to Chartley, Lettice," said my father. "Too long a stay at Court is not good for young people if they are married."

"You must have missed Walter and the children," added my mother.

I retorted that I should not see a great deal of Walter at Chartley in any case.

"No, but he will be there whenever he can, and think of the joy of being with the little girls."

It was true that I should be glad to see the children, but they could not make up for the excitement of Court.

I was depressed for the first days thinking of Robert and wondering what was happening between him and the Queen. The recent estrangement had certainly not made her less fond, and I often wondered whether my deductions had been correct and her affections for him would, in the end, overcome her objections.

I began to ask myself whether she had mentioned me to him. I could picture his denial of anything between us and, if it should be proved against him, assuring her that it was nothing but a temporary diversion because she continually denied him his heart's desire. I vowed that one day I would make him pay for his treatment of me. I would make him realize that I was not to be taken up and thrown aside at his convenience. But when my anger cooled I had to accept its futility. There was nothing I could do ... at this time ... so I sought solace with my family, and strangely enough I found it.

Penelope was in her sixth year—a beautiful child, bright and willful. I could see myself in her very clearly. Dorothy, a year younger, was quieter, but nonetheless determined to have her own way. They, at least, were delighted to see me; and my parents had been right when they said they would bring me consolation.

Walter came to Chartley. He had served with Ambrose Dudley, Earl of Warwick, with whom he had become very friendly. I was interested to hear of Warwick because he was Robert's elder brother and had been under sentence of death with him in the Tower of London for involvement in the attempt to put Lady Jane Grey on the throne.

Walter was as loving as he had been in the early days of our marriage, and as for myself I was nonetheless attractive for having extended my experience. But how different he was from Robert, and how I railed against fate for marrying me to Walter Devereux when there was a man like Robert Dudley in the world.

However, my nature being what it was, I was able to derive some pleasure from my relationship with Walter, and at least he was devoted to me.

It was not long before I was pregnant.

"This time," said Walter, "it will be a boy."

We went to one of Walter's country houses—Netherwood in Herefordshire—which he thought would be more healthy for me, and there on a dark November day my child was born. I must confess to a great exultation when I learned it was a boy. Walter was delighted and ready to indulge me for giving him that which, like most men, he most desired—a son and heir.

The question arose of what we should call him. Walter suggested that he should be named Richard after his father, or possibly Walter, after himself. But I said I should like to get away from family names, and I had a fancy for the name of Robert; and as Walter was ready to please me that became the boy's name.

I was delighted with him, for from the start he was a most handsome child, bright and clearly intelligent. Oddly enough— and I surprised myself in this—I became absorbed by him; he helped to soothe my hurt and, wonder of wonders, I ceased to fret for the Court.

Eight years passed before I saw Robert Dudley again, and a great deal had happened in the world during that time.