My Enemy the Queen

The Years of Banishment

My son had changed the household. His sisters doted on him and all the servants adored him; his father was inordinately proud of him and, oddest of all, I wanted nothing more at that time than to care for him. I would not leave him to his nurses, because I could not bear that they might take his affection from me.

At this time, Walter had every reason to be very content with his marriage. I often thought of Robert Dudley with longing, but, being away from him, I was able to look the facts straight in the face. They were not very palatable for a woman of my pride.

Robert Dudley had made me his mistress temporarily because he was out of favor with the Queen, and as soon as she had beckoned him it was "Goodbye, Lettice. It would be unwise for us to meet again."

My pride was as strong as my physical needs. I was going to try to forget that episode. My family—and in particular my adored son—would help me to do so. I threw myself into the management of my household and for a time became a model wife. I spent some hours in my stillroom. I grew a variety of herbs which my servants used for flavoring dishes and I was constantly trying something new. I made perfumes from lavender, roses and hyacinths; I found new ways of mingling fragrant wild flowers with rushes and frequently used meadowsweet, which the Queen had made fashionable because she had once said it reminded her of the country. I sent for fine cloths—brocades, velvet and grogram—which made my servants goggle-eyed, accustomed as they were to fustian and kersey. My seamstresses were good but of course could not catch the stylish mode of the Court. Never mind! I was a queen in the country and people talked of me—of my elegance, of my table, of the wines I gave to my guests—muscatel, malmsey and those from Italy which I served with my own spices. When visitors came from Court I tried to impress them. I wanted them to return and talk to me that he might know that I could live very satisfactorily without him.

In this domestic atmosphere it was natural that I should become pregnant again. Two years after Robert's birth, I produced yet another son and this time I thought it only fair to name him after his father. So he became Walter.

Events of great moment had been happening in the outside world during those years. Darnley, the husband of Mary Queen of Scots, had died mysteriously in a house in Kirk o' Field just outside Edinburgh. This house had been blown up by gunpowder quite obviously in an attempt to remove Darnley, but the unfortunate man must have had warning of the explosion and had tried to escape. He did not get very far. He was found in the garden of the house—dead but untouched by the explosion, and as there was no sign of violence it was presumed that he had been suffocated by a damp cloth's being held over his mouth. So it was clearly a case of murder. Since Mary was deeply enamored of the Earl of Bothwell—and hated her husband Darnley—and Bothwell had divorced his wife, it seemed clear who was behind the murder.

I must confess that when the news came to Chartley of what had happened I felt a strong desire to be at Court so that I might acquire Elizabeth's reactions at firsthand. I could imagine the horror she would express and the delight she would hide at the predicament in which the Queen of Scots must find herself. At the same time she might be a little uneasy. People would surely be reminded of a similar dilemma in which she had been caught when Robert Dudley's wife had been found dead at the bottom of that staircase in Cumnor Place.

If the Queen of Scots married Bothwell, her throne would surely be in jeopardy. It would be assumed that she had been an accomplice in her husband's murder. Moreover, her position was by no means as strong as Elizabeth's. I could never prevent myself smiling when I remembered the chorus of adulation every time the Queen appeared, and even men like Cecil and Bacon seemed to think she was divine. I sometimes thought that she insisted on this partly because she could not forget the existence of the Queen of Scots, who, common sense told her, was more beautiful than she could ever be even with all her false hair, her chalk and rouge and extravagantly glittering garments.

Events followed quickly after that. At first I would not believe it when I heard that Mary had lost no time in marrying Bothwell. Foolish woman! Why had she not considered the example of our shrewd and wily Elizabeth at the time of her involvement? Mary could not have proclaimed her guilt more loudly to the world; and even if she had not been concerned in Darnley's murder, the stories about Bothwell's being her lover while Darnley lived now appeared to be true.

In a brief space of time there had followed the defeat at Carberry Hill. I felt so restive then. I wanted to be at Court, to see those large tawny eyes expressing so much while they hid so much more. She would be angry at the insult to royalty. Many people remembered that Catherine of Valois, widow of Henry the Fifth, had entered into a not very reputable liaison with Owen Tudor, a Welshman of obscure background and no fortune to speak of. Whether they had even married or not was uncertain; but by him she had three sons, the eldest of whom married Margaret Beaufort and became the Earl of Richmond; and these two were the parents of Henry the Seventh. A flimsy claim to the throne indeed, and so, because of her somewhat doubtful Tudor roots, she was always insistent that due honor be paid to the blood royal. She would deplore the fact that a queen had ridden through the streets of Edinburgh seated on a jennet wearing a tradeswoman's red petticoat while the mob shouted "whore and murderess" after her. Yet at the same time she would be remembering that Mary had dared call herself Queen of England and that there were some Catholics in the country who would be ready to risk a good deal—including their lives—to see Mary on the throne, and a return to Catholicism.

No, Elizabeth would never forget that this foolish woman above the Border was a very great threat to that crown, which was so essentially hers and which she would not share even with the man she loved.

And Robert? What would he be thinking? This was the woman to whom he had been offered in marriage, who had referred to him slightingly as "The Queen's Horse Master." I was sure that his pride was such that he could not but enjoy a certain satisfaction to see her brought so low.

There was defeat, capture and imprisonment at Lochleven, escape from Lochleven and yet another disastrous and final defeat at Langside and—folly of follies—Mary was so deluded as to think she might receive help from "Her dear sister of England."

I could imagine that dear sister's excitement at the prospect of having her greatest rival deliver herself, of her own free will, into her hands.

Soon after Mary had arrived in England we had a visit from my father. His mood was one of mingling apprehension and pride, and when I heard the reason for his visit I could well understand his mood.

The Queen and Sir William Cecil had sent for him and told him that they had a mission for him.

" 'It is a sign of my trust and faith in you, Cousin,'" he proudly told me the Queen had said to him; and he went on: "I am to be guardian of the Queen of Scots. I am going up to Carlisle Castle, where Lord Scrope will join me in this task."

Walter said it was one he would not welcome.

"Why not?" I demanded. "The Queen would only entrust it to one in whom she had complete trust."

"That's so," agreed Walter, "but it will be a dangerous task. Where Mary of Scotland is there is trouble."

"Not now she is in England," said my father, rather naively, I thought.

"But she will be your prisoner and you her jailer," Walter pointed out. "Just suppose that..."

He did not finish, but we knew what he meant. If ever Mary rallied enough forces to her banner and fought for the throne of England and won it, what of those who, on the instructions of her rival, had acted as her jailers? Moreover, what if she escaped? Walter was thinking that he would not care to be the one who might be held responsible for that calamity.

Oh yes, it was a considerable responsibility that my father had taken on.

But merely to mention the possibility of Elizabeth's being replaced was treason. All the same we couldn't help the thought being in our minds.

"We shall guard her carefully," said my father, "yet at the same time not let her know that she is a prisoner."

"You set yourself an impossible task, Father," I told him.

"I think that perhaps it is God's will," was his answer. "It may be that I have been selected to turn her thoughts from Catholicism, which I believe to be the root of all her troubles."

My father was a very innocent man, which may well have been due to his simple faith. With the passing of the years his devotion to Protestantism had increased, and it was bringing him to the belief that all those not of his faith were doomed to damnation.

I did not challenge him on this. He was a good man and I was fond of him, as I was of my mother; and I did not wish them to know how different was my outlook from theirs. I often wondered what they would have thought had they known of my brief liaison with Robert Dudley. That they would have been deeply shocked I was well aware.

My father had with him some clothes which he was taking from Elizabeth to Mary. I said I should like to see them and, rather to my surprise, my father allowed me to. I had expected some queenly garments—puffed and slashed and decorated with gems, lace ruffs, silken undergowns, linen petticoats and of course jeweled and embroidered overgowns. All I found were some shoes, very well worn, a piece of black velvet to be made into a dress and some undergarments which were clearly not new.

And this was the gift of the Queen of England to Mary, who was noted throughout France and Scotland for her elegance! Such garments would be scorned by her maids.

I was sorry for Mary, and once again I felt the urge to be at the center of events, to know firsthand and not rely on visitors who came riding to Chartley and would tell us what had happened weeks after it had taken place. I was not of a nature to enjoy standing aside and merely looking on.

Soon after my son Walter was born, two events took place.

The Queen of Scots had been moved from Carlisle Castle to that of Bolton. My father was a little fascinated by her, as most men were who came into contact with her; but in my father's case the effect of this was to make him want to save her soul rather than enjoy her body; and I heard that he was attempting to convert her to our faith. She had by this time realized how foolish she had been to put her trust in Elizabeth and walk straight into her enemy's camp. It was true she might have done no better if she had gone to France, but who could be sure of that? She had not exactly endeared herself to Catherine de' Medici, the Queen Mother, and there was a woman as wily as our own Elizabeth and certainly more lethal. Poor Mary—there she was with three countries to chose from: Scotland, from which she had fled; France, where she might have had a fair reception from her Guise relations—and England, which she chose.

She had made an attempt to escape by the romantic but often not very practical method of sliding down the walls by means of knotted sheets, and had been caught by Lord Scrope, and naturally after that her jailers had been obliged to increase security. Lady Scrope, who was with her husband, was the sister of the Duke of Norfolk, and she it was who talked so glowingly of the attractions of her brother to the Queen of Scots that Mary became interested in Norfolk, and thus the foolish man was drawn into a web of intrigue which was to result in his downfall.

In due course there came the rebellion of the Northern Lords and my husband was called to his duty. He joined the Earl of Warwick's forces and became Marshal of the Field.

My mother had been ill for some time, and she wrote telling us of the Queen's great sympathy for her. "No one could have been kinder than Her Majesty," wrote my mother. "How lucky we are in our sovereign lady."

It was true that Elizabeth was loyal to her friends. She had given poor Lady Mary Sidney an apartment in Hampton Court, where she came sometimes to stay in retirement because she hated to show her pockmarked face; and Elizabeth visited her regularly and would sit for a long time chatting with her. She made it clear that she did not forget that Lady Sidney had acquired her scars while nursing her.

Then I received a message.

I was to return to Court.

My excitement was intense. Why had I ever thought my simple country pleasures would compensate me for the excitement of the Court? And when I say "Court" I mean of course those two who were so often in my thoughts. The very prospect of returning set my nerves tingling.

I could scarcely wait to get there.

I went straight to the Queen, who had given orders that I should be brought to her. I was unprepared for her greeting. As I would have knelt she took me in her arms and kissed me. I was astonished but I soon learned the reason.

"I am stricken with grief, Lettice," she said. "Your mother is very ill indeed." The large eyes were glazed a little. "I greatly fear ..." She shook her head. "You must go to her at once."

I had hated her. She had deprived me of what I most wanted in life. But in that moment I almost loved her. Perhaps it was because of that capacity in her for friendship and loyalty to those whom she loved. And she loved my mother.

"Tell her," she said, "that she is in my thoughts. Tell her that, Lettice."

She put her arm through mine and walked with me to the door. It was as though she had forgiven me for anything of which she might have suspected me because she shared my grief.

With my brothers and sisters I was at my mother's bedside when she died. I knelt by her bed and gave her the Queen's message. I knew by the expression which flitted across her face that she had understood.

"Serve God ... and the Queen," she murmured. "Oh, my children, remember ..."

And that was all.

Elizabeth was certainly deeply moved. She insisted that my mother be buried at her expense in St. Edmund's Chapel. She sent for me and told me how deeply she had loved her cousin and that her loss would be sincerely felt. She meant it, I know, and she was tender to us all ... temporarily. I believe at this time she even forgave me for catching Robert's eye.

After the funeral she called me to her and talked about my parents—how she had loved my mother, how she esteemed my father.

"There was a family bond between your mother and me," she said, "and she was a good and gentle soul. I hope you will follow her example."

I told her wistfully that I missed serving her and she answered: "Ah, but you have compensations. How many is it now ... four?"

"Yes, Madam, two girls and two boys."

"You are fortunate."

"I count myself so, Madam."

"That is well. There was a time when I thought you had a roving eye."

"Madam!"

She gave me a slap on the arm. "It seemed so. I esteem Walter Devereux. He is a man who deserves nothing but good."

"He will be overwhelmed with joy to hear that he has Your Majesty's good opinion."

"A lucky man. He has his heir. What have you called him?"

"Robert, Madam."

She looked at me sharply. Then she said: "A good name. A favorite of mine."

"Of mine now, Your Majesty."

"I shall reward your husband for his services to us. Lord Warwick has spoken of him most warmly, and I have decided one way in which I will show my appreciation."

"May I be allowed to ask what that is, Your Majesty?"

"Certainly. I am sending his wife back to Chartley, so that when he returns to his home he will find her there."

"He is at this moment busily engaged in the North."

" 'Tis so. But we have got the better of these rebels, and should he return I would not have him disappointed and missing his wife."

It was dismissal. The friendliness she had felt in our mutual grief was over. I was not to be forgiven for Robert's brief interest in me.

My children were growing up. Penelope was nearly ten and Robert five. The domestic life, however, could never satisfy me. I was certainly not in love with my husband and felt little excitement during his visits. I was growing more and more restive because life was so dull. I was fond of my children—and in particular young Robert—but a child of five could not compensate a woman of my nature and provide the stimulus she needs.

When visitors came to Chartley I heard scraps of news—very often about the Earl of Leicester, who continued to dominate life at Court, and to these I listened avidly. He was still in high favor with the Queen, and the years were passing. It seemed unlikely now that Elizabeth would ever marry. She had recently flirted with the idea of taking the Duc d'Anjou, but like all her previous proposed matches, it came to nothing; and she would soon be forty, which was a little old for childbearing. Robert was still her favorite man, but no nearer to marrying her than he had ever been. And with each passing year the possibility must be becoming more and more remote.

There were uneasy rumors about certain amours of his. It was hardly to be expected that a man like Leicester would be prepared to be dangled on a string forever. I heard that two ladies of the Court (one of these was Douglass, wife of the Earl of Sheffield, and the other her sister, Lady Frances Howard) were both enamored of him and vied with each other for his attention.

"He likes them both well enough," said my informant, a visitor from Court who stayed a night or two at Chartley on his way North, and he added with a sly smile: "But the Queen has noted their follies and she likes them not."

Certainly she would not like it if they were involved with Leicester. I expected their dismissal would soon come as mine had. I was surprised to discover that I could still be jealous. I remembered hearing it said that there was something fascinating about the Howard women. Anne Boleyn was a Howard through her mother; Catherine Howard, who had been Henry VIII's fifth wife, had possessed that same attraction. Poor girl, it had cost her her head, though if she had been a little more subtle she might have saved it. They were not subtle, though, these Howards. They were attractive to men because they had need of them; but they were not calculating enough to take advantage of their assets.

I was now avid for news, and I asked myself how I could ever have thought I had ceased to be concerned with Robert Dudley. I knew very well that I only had to meet him again and I should be as eager for him as I ever was.

I asked my visitor what he knew about the Douglass Sheffield and Frances Howard matter.

"Oh," he told me, "rumor has it that Lady Sheffield became Leicester's mistress when they were both staying at Belvoir Castle."

I could picture it. The affair would progress rapidly as mine had, for Robert was a very impatient man and as the equivocation of the Queen drove him to distraction he would not want to endure similar frustration from other quarters.

"The story goes," went on our visitor, "that Leicester had written a love letter to Douglass in which he recklessly said he deplored the existence of her husband, thus implying that he would have married her if she had not already been a wife. Then, they say, came the hint that Sheffield might not long be there to plague them."

I gasped in horror. "Surely he could not have meant..."

"After the death of his wife there have been rumors about him. The silly Douglass—but perhaps she was not so silly and intended it to happen—dropped the letter on her return home, and it was found by her sister-in-law—who had little love for her—and promptly showed it to the cuckolded husband. They parted beds that night and Sheffield went off to London to arrange a divorce. He had the letter, you see, with what might be construed as a threat against his life ... considering the direction it came from."

"All men in the public eye are envied and slandered." I found myself fervently defending Robert. "And surely there never was one more so than the Earl of Leicester."

"Well, you see, he has this Italian physician."

"You mean Dr. Julio."

"So he is called. He is in truth Giulio Borgherini, but people find difficulty in pronouncing his name. He is said to have great knowledge of poisons and to use them in the service of his master."

"You believe this?"

He shrugged his shoulders. "There was the death of his wife. People will never forget that. They will always remember it when something like this arises."

When he had left us I thought a good deal about Robert. I was bitterly hurt that he should want to marry Douglass Sheffield.

Walter came back. He was puffed up with pride because of the Queen's approval and had some wild scheme in his head about colonizing Ulster. The Queen had made him a Knight of the Garter and Earl of Essex—a title which had formerly been in his family through a marriage with the Mandevilles. That it was restored to him was a sign of the Queen's great favor.

I was a countess now and should have liked to accompany Walter to Court, but the Queen's invitation was clearly for him alone, so I was obliged to remain behind.

When he returned he was full of the latest scandal. As I might have expected it involved Robert Dudley.

"They say," he told me, "that the Earl of Sheffield, having discovered that his wife had betrayed him with Leicester, decided to seek a divorce. Imagine the scandal that would have meant. I doubt it would have pleased Her Majesty."

"Is she still as enamored of him as ever?"

"Clearly so. She is peevish when he is not at her side and it is a marvel—the manner in which her eyes follow him around."

"Tell me about the Sheffield scandal."

"Unnecessary now. He died."

"Died!"

"Oh yes, just at the right moment to avoid the scandal. It's not difficult to imagine the Queen's wrath if she had known Leicester was philandering with Lady Sheffield."

"How did he die?"

"They say poison."

"They always say these things."

"Well, he is dead and that means that Leicester will sleep easy at night."

"And Lady Sheffield ... has he married her?"

"I've heard nothing of marriage."

"What is Lady Sheffield like?"

Walter shrugged his shoulders. He never noticed what a woman looked like. He was more interested in politics than private lives, and it was only due to Leicester's position in the country that he considered his love affairs for a moment; they were only important because they might alienate him from the Queen.

Walter was more concerned with a plot to marry Norfolk to the Queen of Scots, which Lady Scrope had possibly set in motion when she was with her husband at the time he was guarding Mary with my father.

Norfolk had always been a fool. He had already been married three times and all his wives had died. He was in his thirties, and no doubt the reputation of the Queen of Scots enthralled him. She was reckoned, after all, to be one of the most fascinating women of the day, and she had had three husbands to match Norfolk's three wives. Doubtless the foolish fellow thought it would be rather intriguing to be a queen's consort. So the plot went on. Norfolk professed to be a Protestant, but at heart he was a Catholic. I expect that he imagined he could one day be King of England in all but name. He could never forget that his family was of higher rank than the Tudors.

It was not a secret plan, and when it reached the Queen's ears she sent for Norfolk, and those present at the meeting read in it a stern warning to Norfolk.

The Queen had said that it had come to her ears that Norfolk was eager to change his title of Duke for King.

Norfolk must have been so shaken with those big tawny eyes on him that he denied this. He stammered that the Queen of Scots was an adulteress and suspected of murder, and he was a man who liked to sleep on a safe pillow. When the Queen replied that some men might be ready to take risks for the sake of a crown, Norfolk replied that he was as good a prince in his bowling alley in Norfolk as she was in the heart of Scotland. A rather dangerous remark for the same might have been said of Elizabeth at Greenwich. He then plunged further into danger when he said that he could not marry the Queen of Scots knowing that she pretended to the crown of England, and that if he did so Queen Elizabeth might charge him with seeking the crown of England.

The Queen retorted tartly that she might well do so.

Poor foolish Norfolk! He must have signed his death warrant in that moment.

It was surprising to hear—again through visitors from the Court —that the Earl of Leicester had oddly enough forgotten the enmity between himself and Norfolk and placed himself on the Duke's side. Heaven knew what was in Robert's mind, but I grew to discover that he could be as devious as Elizabeth herself. I believe now that he was afraid Elizabeth would die—she was often ill and on several occasions since her accession her life had been believed to be in danger—and if she did, Mary Stuart would come to the throne.

Robert was a man who could appear courteous and gentle outwardly while he was planning murder. Always to the forefront of his mind would be his own advantage. While he decided to support Norfolk he told him that he would arrange a meeting with Elizabeth so that he could present the case to her.

In view of his previous conversation with the Queen, Norfolk should have known better. Elizabeth, no doubt primed by Robert, for it would be characteristic of him to place one foot in each camp, nipped Norfolk's proposition in the bud, before he was able to begin to explain the advantages of a match between himself and Mary, taking his ear between her thumb and forefinger and pinching it so hard that he flinched.

"I would wish you," she said, "to take good heed of your pillow."

She was reminding him of his observation that he liked to sleep on a safe one and telling him as clearly as she could that the one he was proposing to take would lead him to another kind of pillow—a block of wood on which he might rest his head until the ax descended to sever it from his body.

Norfolk's heart must have quailed, for he fell on his knees, vowing that he had no desire for marriage, only to serve her.

Unfortunately for him he was not speaking the truth, and as it came out afterwards when he received secret communications from the Queen of Scots, he was soon once again deep in the intrigue to marry her and rescue her from captivity.

Walter was immersed in his plans for Ulster, but when he went to Court he did hear a little of what was happening in those circles. He was disturbed because the Catholic threat to England was growing and the Queen's refusal to marry complicated it. While she lived, the country was safe for Protestantism, but if she died it could be plunged into war. He told me that ministers were constantly discussing the seriousness of a situation in which the succession was insecure, a fact which left England very vulnerable, particularly with the Queen of Scots actually in captivity in the country. Walter secretly agreed with this and told me that even Leicester had joined those who supported the plan for Norfolk to marry Mary Queen of Scots, so that she could be assured of an English husband. He could then make a Protestant of her, and if Elizabeth were to die and Mary inherit the throne, the religion of England would not change.

William Cecil was against such a marriage, but there were many influential men in the country who would have been pleased to see Cecil deposed. As Leicester had joined the plotters he was chosen to explain to the Queen the danger in which Cecil was placing the country. His present policy was alienating those influential Catholic countries, France and Spain, and to placate them it might be necessary to send Cecil to the block.

I heard from several sources what had happened at that meet­ing of the Council and never had the Queen shown her true nature so openly as she did on that occasion. I could picture her clearly. Her greatness must have been evident as she faced those schemers. The ax for Cecil! She broke out into a torrent of abuse for all those round that table who had dared suggest such a thing.

She reminded them that these were not the days of her father when ministers were sent to the block to make way for others. Cecil was against the marriage of Mary of Scotland and Norfolk, was he? They should know that Cecil's mistress agreed with him, and they should be well advised to watch their actions, lest they find themselves in that position into which they were trying to hustle Cecil. She would like them to inform their friend, the Queen of Scots, that if she did not take better care of them, some of her friends might find themselves shorter by a head.

When Walter discussed this with me, I said that I supposed they would drop their plan to remove Cecil now, but he shook his head and hinted that they might be conspiring against him in secret.

I was a little afraid then because I knew that Robert was involved, and I wondered what would happen if the Queen discovered that he was working against her. His treachery would be a thousand times worse than that of anyone else. I could not understand myself. I had wanted revenge on him for what he had done to me. I had often, overwhelmed by my young bitterness declared —to myself, of course—that I should like to see him dismissed from Court as I had been. And now, here I was, worried because he was in acute danger.

But even though he was deeply involved with the conspirators, I might have known he would find a way out. I heard the story in snatches: How news had come to the Queen that Robert was dying and how she left everything to go to his bedside. She loved him. There was no doubt of that and I think that hers was a more abiding passion than that which Mary of Scotland ever had for Bothwell. With Mary it had been that irresistible physical attraction which had overwhelmed her so that she had bartered her crown for it; but she never had for him that enduring devotion which Elizabeth felt for Robert. Elizabeth simply wanted her throne more than she wanted Robert. But she loved him all the same.

He was relying on that affection to extricate him from a very dangerous situation—and it worked.

I could well imagine that pathetic bedside scene, with Robert lying there enacting the deathbed scene with great panache. All her love would have flowed to the surface. She could be so loyal to those whom she loved, just as she could never forgive those whom she hated.

I could picture Robert's account of his devotion to her. How he feared for her and had been led to believe that it was best for Elizabeth that Mary should marry Norfolk. And that was the reason why he had given his support to the plan ... solely out of love for her ... and now he could not forgive himself for acting without her knowledge, although he had done it out of his concern for her. He was clever with women. He knew how to give just the right amount of flattery; he was very artful with the artless comment. It was small wonder that so many women loved him—and Elizabeth was one of the many.

She had wept. Her Sweet Robin must not fret. She commanded him to get well, for she could not lose him. I could imagine the looks which would pass between them. Of course he would live. Hadn't he always obeyed her commands?

How typical it was of our sovereign lady that she should forgive Robert while at the same time she sent for Norfolk. The Duke was arrested and sent to the Tower.

We all believed that Norfolk would lose his head, but the Queen seemed reluctant to sign the death warrant. Following her usual line in such cases, she prevaricated and in due course Norfolk was released, though he must live in restraint on his estates. But he was a man who seemed determined on self-destruction. It had been said that the very name of the Queen of Scots exerted a terrible fascination. Perhaps it was so, for Norfolk had not seen her. Perhaps he was intrigued by a queen who had committed adultery and was suspected of murder. It was difficult to say, but the fact remained that Norfolk was soon involved in the Ridolfi plot.

Ridolfi was a Florentine banker who had a plan to capture Elizabeth, set Mary on the throne after marrying her to Norfolk, and bring Catholicism back to England. The plot was doomed to fail. Several agents were caught and tortured, and in a short time Norfolk's involvement was revealed. There was no hope for him then. William Cecil, now Lord Burleigh, pointed out to the Queen that Norfolk could no longer be allowed to live; and in this he was supported by the Privy Council and the House of Commons.

Once again the Queen shrank from signing the death warrant. She was so distressed that she became ill with one of her mysterious disorders which resulted in what she called heavy and vehement pains. These pains could have been attributed to poison and, in view of the fact that the Ridolfi plot had just been uncovered, there was fear that the Queen's life might be in danger. But it turned out to be merely another of those illnesses which attacked her when something unpleasant had to be done. I used to wonder whether, when a death warrant was presented to her, she thought of her mother and the memory upset her. The fact remained that she was reluctant to kill, even when she herself had been put in danger.

Her ministers thought that here was a good case for ridding herself of Mary Queen of Scots, who was implicated in the plot; but this she refused to consider.

Eventually, however, the Duke of Norfolk's death warrant was signed, and a special scaffold was erected on Tower Hill, for since the Queen's accession there had been no beheadings there and a new one was required.

All this happened during the years of my exile.

Walter had gone to Ireland full of plans for colonizing Ulster, but in less than a year he was having to confess to failure. He did not give up, however, and after returning to England for a while to consult with the Queen and her ministers he went back to try again.

He would have liked me to accompany him, but I pleaded that the children needed me. I had no intention of going to that wild country and enduring all kinds of discomfort. I was almost certain, too, that the expedition would be a failure, as most things Walter undertook would in time prove to be.

I was glad that I had stood firmly against going, for it was while Walter was in Ireland that the Queen intimated that I might return to Court.

I was filled with a wild excitement. My son Robert was eight at the time and Walter six; the girls were growing up but still not of an age to make it necessary to find husbands for them.

A spell at Court was just what I needed.

So I found myself at the Kenilworth revels and at the beginning of a new and exciting life. I was no longer young, being in my thirty-fourth year, and at Chartley I had begun to feel that life was passing me by.

Perhaps that was why I plunged so recklessly into the richness which fate threw at me during the following years, with little thought of where it would lead me. My banishment had lasted too long, but it had at least shown me that I could never forget Robert Dudley and that my relationship with the Queen added to the flavor of my life without which it would have been insipid.

There were two things I wanted—my passionate life with Robert and my battle for superiority with the Queen—and I wanted them desperately. Having tasted them once, I could not be satisfied to live without them and I was ready to face any consequences to get them. I had to prove to myself and to Robert—and perhaps one day to the Queen herself—that my physical attractions were irresistible to him—far more so than the Queen's royalty.

I was heading for a dangerous road. I did not care. I was reckless, eager for life, and was convinced I knew how to find what I wanted.