My Enemy the Queen

Betrayal

There followed months of subterfuge. I returned to Court, and whenever we could be, Robert and I were together. The Queen kept him a great deal with her, and I had to witness my husband making verbal love to my rival, which I have to confess caused me no small jealousy.

I knew of course that Elizabeth would never take a real lover and that in this respect she lived in a world of make-believe which had no substance in reality; and Robert tried to make up for my irritation with all this. We would exchange glances daringly in the Queen's presence; I would suddenly feel the pressure of his body against mine and the spark of desire would flare up between us even in the Presence Chamber. I warned him: "You will betray us one day." And I would be pleased that he risked so much. He shrugged his shoulders and pretended not to care, but I knew all the time that he was very eager to keep our secret in spite of the risks he took.

I gave the Queen an amber necklace decorated with pearls and gold for the New Year's gift and she declared herself delighted with it. She commented, though, that I looked a little pale, and she wondered whether I had recovered from my illness.

Robert had thought he should be especially lavish with his gifts just in case she thought he was not paying her as much attention as usual, and I helped him choose a beautiful clock set with rubies and diamonds, and some ruby and diamond buttons with bodkins to match for use in her hair. I knew she would delight in wearing them because he had given them to her.

I often saw her looking at them fondly and caressing them when they were in her hair; and she kept the clock beside her bed.

It was a bleak cold January day when Jehan de Simier arrived in London. He was a voluble gentleman with great charm of manners which delighted the Queen, particularly when he made a show of being overwhelmed by her beauty—and indeed she was a glittering figure when she received the Frenchman. She told how delighted she was that his master had renewed his courtship. She had thought of him constantly and it would appear that, this time, nothing would prevent their marriage.

She danced with him and played the virginals for his pleasure. She was so anxious that he should carry a good report of her to the Duc. She said that she was glad that she had not taken his brother—who as the Duc of Anjou had once courted her. He had been unfaithful and married someone else and she was delighted with the prospect of marriage with dear Alencon, as he had been, and Anjou, as he was now.

She looked at least ten years younger; dressing sessions were longer and she was very meticulous, scolding us if we did not dress her hair as she wished. Attending her was an ordeal but at the same time amusing. She was not irritable but gave to sharp little bursts of anger if she thought we did not do our best and we often had a slap or a pinch for our pains. I was amazed by her— though she had never looked her age because of her youthful figure and that amazingly white skin which she took such care to preserve. She could behave like a young girl in love for the first time. Yet she was deluding even herself, for she had no intention of marrying this French Prince.

She kept Simier at her side and made sure of his comfort. She asked him many questions about the Duc. How did he compare with his brother? she wanted to know.

"He is not quite as tall as his brother," was the answer.

"I hear that the King of France is indeed handsome and surrounds himself with almost as handsome young men."

"The Duc d'Anjou is not quite so fair as his brother," was the answer.

"I believe the King to be a trifle vain."

Simier offered no answer to that, for naturally he did not want it reported that he had uttered treason against his King.

"Is the young Duc d'Anjou eager for this match?" asked the Queen.

"He has sworn to win Your Majesty," was the answer.

"It is not easy to marry a man whom one has not seen," she said.

Simier replied eagerly: "Madam, if you will but sign his passport, he will lose no time in coming to you."

Now her true feelings began to emerge, for there was always some excuse why the passport should not be signed.

Robert was amused.

"She will never make the French marriage," he said.

"If she doesn't, what will she do when she hears about us?" I asked.

"It will make no difference. She cannot expect me to remain unmarried any more than she intends not to marry herself."

She made it clear that she liked to have Simier dance attendance on her; she wanted to receive charming letters from her suitor; she declared herself longing for a glimpse of him, but the passport remained unsigned.

Catherine de' Medici, the prospective bridegroom's mother, was clearly getting restive. Wily as Elizabeth herself, she would realize that this matrimonial adventure was going the way of all the others; and there was no doubt that the Queen of England was a glittering prize for her young son, who had only distinguished himself by being exceptionally undistinguished.

Catherine de' Medici and the King of France sent a secret letter to Robert which he showed me, and in which they suggested that when the Duc d'Anjou came to England, Robert should be his adviser and help to show him the ways of the country; they were most eager to impress on him that the marriage would in no way endanger his position.

Robert was amused and gratified because it meant that his power was realized even in France.

"She will never take Anjou," he said. "I hear he is an ugly little creature."

"And she has always had such a fancy for handsome men," I added.

" Tis true," replied Robert. "Her interest is immediately aroused by a handsome face. I am warning her to keep playing along with the French, and you see she has not granted him his passport, as I have advised her."

"What does she say when you are alone with her?" I asked. "How does she explain this coquettish attitude towards the French Prince?"

"Oh, she has always been the same. When I criticize him, she tells me I am jealous, and that pleases her, of course."

"I have always wondered how she, who is so clever, can so successfully play the fool."

"Never be deceived by her, Lettice. Sometimes I think that everything she does has some ulterior motive. She keeps peace between England and France while she pretends there will be an alliance. I have seen her do it again and again. She believes firmly in peace, and who can say she is not right? England has prospered since she came to the throne."

"At least if you confessed to her now she could not be angry."

"Could she not! Her rage would be terrible."

"But why—since she herself is contemplating marriage with this French Prince?"

"Never ask her why. She would be furious. She may marry, but not I. I am to be her devoted slave all the days of my life."

"She is going to discover her mistake sooner or later."

"I tremble to think of it."

"You tremble! You have always been able to manage her."

"I have never had to face her with such an event before."

I slipped my arm through his. "You'll do it, Robert," I said. "Just bring out that charm which none of us can resist."

But perhaps he did not understand the Queen as well as he thought he did.

It was impossible to keep my marriage secret from my daughters.

Penelope was vivacious and so much like me in looks that the relationship was immediately obvious to observers, except that many of them declared—and as I don't believe in false modesty, I will say they were right—that we looked like sisters. Dorothy was quieter but attractive in her own way; and they were both of an age when they were interested in what was going on around them, particularly if it involved a man.

The Earl of Leicester was a frequent visitor to the house and as they were aware of his secret comings and goings they found this intriguing.

When Penelope asked me if I was having a love affair with the Earl of Leicester, I told her the truth, which I thought was the best answer.

The girls were both excited and delighted.

"But he is the most fascinating man at Court!" cried Penelope.

"Well, why should that prevent his marrying me?"

"I have heard it said there is not a lady at Court to rival you for beauty," said Dorothy.

"Perhaps they said that to you knowing you were my daughter."

"Oh no. It is so. You look so young in spite of being the mother of us all. And after all, if you are rather old, so is the Earl of Leicester."

I laughed but protested: "I am not old, Dorothy. Age is determined by one's spirit and mine is as young as yours. I have made up my mind never to grow old."

"I shall do the same," Penelope assured me. "But, Mother, do tell us about our stepfather."

"What is there to tell you? He is the most fascinating man in the world, as you know. I have been determined to marry him for some time. Now I have done so."

Dorothy looked a little anxious. Rumors evidently reached the schoolroom nowadays, I thought, and wondered uneasily if they had heard of the Douglass Sheffield scandal.

"It's a perfectly legal marriage," I said. "Your grandfather was present. That speaks for itself."

Dorothy looked relieved, and I drew her to me and kissed her on the cheek.

"Never fear, dear child. All will be well. Robert has talked to me a great deal about you girls. He is going to make brilliant marriages for you."

They listened with shining eyes while I explained that their stepfather's position was such that the highest families in the land would be honored to be allied with his.

"And you, my daughters, are now related to him, because he has become your stepfather. Now you are going to start to live. But you must remember that, just as yet, our marriage is a secret."

"Oh yes," cried Penelope. "The Queen loves him and couldn't bear him to marry anyone else."

"That's true," I agreed. "So remember it, and not a word."

The girls nodded vigorously, clearly delighted with the situation.

I was wondering whether we should pursue the proposed match between Robert's nephew, Philip Sidney, and Penelope, which Walter and I had thought might be advantageous, but before I had time to broach this matter with Robert I received a message from him to say that he had left Court for Wanstead and he wanted me to join him there without delay.

The journey was only six miles so I set out immediately wondering what had made him leave Court so abruptly.

When I arrived at Wanstead he was waiting for me in a state of anger. He told me that in spite of his advice the Queen had granted Simier the passport he had been clamoring for.

"This means that Anjou will now come here," he said.

"But she has never seen any of her suitors before ... except Philip of Spain, if he could be called one, and he never came wooing her."

"I cannot understand it. All I know is that she is deliberately flouting me. I have told her again and again what folly it is to bring him here. When she sends him back it will create bad feeling in France. While she pretends to consider and coquettes by letter, it is a different matter—though dangerous as I have repeatedly told her. But to bring him here ... that's madness."

"What has made her do this?"

"She seems to have lost her senses. The thought of marriage has had this effect on her before, but she has never yet gone so far."

I knew what Robert was thinking, and he may have been right. He was the man she loved, and if she had an inkling that he had married someone else she would indeed be furious. That outburst of hers about not demeaning herself by marrying a servant whom she had raised up could well have been the outward sign of an inner wound. She wanted Robert to herself exclusively. She herself could flirt and frolic, but he should know that it was never serious. He was the one. Now Robert was wondering whether she had heard rumors concerning us, because it was becoming increasingly difficult to keep our secret.

"When I heard what she had done," he told me, "I went to her and before some of her attendants she demanded to know how I dared come without first asking permission to do so. I reminded her that I had done it frequently without reproof, and she told me to take care. She was in a strange mood. I said I would remove myself from Court as she seemed to wish that, to which she replied that if she wished it she would not have hesitated to say so, but now I had suggested it, she thought it a good idea. So I bowed and was about to leave when she asked why had I come bursting thus unceremoniously into her apartments. I indicated that I did not wish to speak before her attendants and she dismissed them.

"Then I said: 'Madam, I think it is a mistake to bring the Frenchman here.'

" 'Why so?' she cried. 'Do you expect me to marry a man I have never seen?'

"I replied: 'No, Madam, I do earnestly hope and pray that you will not marry outside this country.'

"Then she laughed and let out a stream of oaths. She said she understood that well for I had always had high pretensions. I had allowed myself to believe that because she had shown me some favor I might share the crown with her.

"I kept my temper and answered that no one would be so foolish as to hope to share her crown. All he could wish for was to serve her and if there was a chance of his doing so in an intimate capacity he would be fortunate.

"She then accused me of doing everything I could to impede Simier, who himself had complained to her of my lack of friendship towards him. I gave myself airs. I seemed to think I was of especial importance to her. I would have to lower my fancies, for when she married she doubted her husband would tolerate that. At which I asked her leave to retire from Court.

"She shouted at me: 'It is granted. Go, and stay away. There has been a little too much of the pride and glory of my Lord Leicester at our Court of late.'

"So I came to Wanstead and here I am."

"Do you really think this French marriage will take place?"

"I cannot believe it. It's monstrous. She will never get an heir, and what other reason could there be? He is twenty-three and she is forty-six. She is not serious. She cannot be."

"I'll swear she feels this is the last chance to play her little courtship game. That's the answer."

He shook his head, and I went on: "Perhaps now that you are out of favor it would be a good time to make our marriage publicly known. After all, she has rejected you, why should you not seek consolation elsewhere?"

"In her present mood it could be disastrous. No, Lettice. God help us, we must still wait a while."

He was in such a state of anger against the Queen that I decided not to pursue the matter. He talked a great deal about what the withdrawal of the Queen's favor could mean to us, as though it had to be explained to me how disastrous that could be. A man who had enjoyed such favors had naturally incurred a great deal of rancor. Envy was the prevailing passion in the world and Elizabeth's Court was no exception. Robert was one of the richest and most powerful men in the country— made so by the Queen's gifts. He had the magnificent Leicester House in the Strand, the incomparable Kenilworth, Wanstead, lands in the North, South and Midlands, all of which brought in considerable revenues. Men came to him when they sought the Queen's favor, for it was well known that there had been times when she could deny him nothing he asked; moreover, in the wholeheartedness of her affection she wanted all to know how she regarded him.

But she was a despot; her resemblance to her royal father was apparent in so many of her actions. How often had he warned a subject: "I have raised you up. I can as easily cast you down." Her vanity was great and an assault on it would never be forgiven.

Yes, Robert was right when he said we must tread warily.

All that day and far into the night we talked of our future, and although Robert could not believe she would marry the Duc d'Anjou even if she brought him to England, he was very uneasy.

The next day a summons came from the Queen. Robert was to return to Court without delay.

We discussed it together.

"I don't like it," said Robert. "I fear that when I come humbly back, she will want to show me how much I depend on her. I shall not go."

"Disobey the Queen!"

"I'll use the tactics she so successfully used in her youth. I'll pretend to be ill."

So Robert made a feint of preparing to leave but before he had time to do so he complained of the pain in his legs and he said the swelling was great. His doctors' remedy was to retire to bed at such times, so to bed he went and sent a message to the Queen acknowledging her summons but craving her indulgence for a few weeks as he was too ill to travel and must take to his bed at Wanstead.

It seemed advisable for him to stay in his apartments because we had to be careful that those who wished us ill did not carry tales to the Court; and how could we be sure who our friends were?

I was, thankfully, in the house when a party was seen approaching. The royal standard fluttered in the breeze heralding one of the Queen's journeys. In horror I realized that she was on her way to the invalid at Wanstead.

There was just time to make sure that Robert was looking wan in bed and to remove from the bedchamber all signs which might indicate that a woman shared it with him.

Then the trumpets sounded. The Queen had arrived at Wanstead.

I heard her voice; she was demanding to be taken to the Earl without delay. She wanted to assure herself of his condition, for she had suffered much anxiety on his account.

I had shut myself in one of the smaller rooms, listening intently to what was happening, feeling alarmed at what this visit could mean, and angry because I, the mistress of the house, dared not show myself.

I did have some servants whom I believed I could trust, and one of these brought me news of what was happening.

The Queen was with the Earl of Leicester, expressing great concern about his illness. She was not going to trust any of the nursing of her dear friend to anyone. She would remain in the sickroom, and the chamber which was kept for her at Wanstead must be made ready for her when she should need it.

I was dismayed. So it was not to be a brief visit!

What a situation! There was I, in my own house, with, it seemed, no right to be there.

Servants were scurrying up and down to the sickroom. I could hear the Queen as she shouted orders. Robert would not have to feign sickness; he would be ill with anxiety wondering what was happening to me and whether my presence was going to be discovered.

I thanked God for Robert's power and the fear in which many went of him, for just as the Queen could cast him down, so he could wreak vengeance on any who displeased him. Moreover, he had a reputation for dark deeds. People still remembered Amy Robsart and the Earls of Sheffield and Essex. It was whispered that those who were enemies of the Earl of Leicester should take care not to dine at his table.

So I was not unduly afraid of betrayal.

Yet I was faced with a problem. If I left and were seen leaving, there would indeed be a storm. And yet was it safe for me to stay hidden in the house?

I decided on the latter course and prayed that Elizabeth's sojourn would be a brief one. I often laugh now to think of that time, although then it was far from a laughing matter. Food was smuggled up to me. I could not go out. I had to keep my faithful maid continually on the watch.

Elizabeth remained at Wanstead for two days and nights and it was not until—from the window of a small top room—I had seen the cavalcade disappear that I dared to emerge.

Robert was still in bed and in excellent spirits. The Queen had been attentive; she had insisted on nursing him herself, had scolded him for not taking better care of his health and had implied that she was as fond of him as ever.

He was certain that she would not make the French marriage and that his position at Court would be as firm as it ever had been.

I did point out to him that she might be incensed when she heard that he had married, since she appeared to have lost none of her affection for him. But Robert was so pleased because he was back in favor that he refused to be depressed.

How we laughed over the adventure now that the danger was past! But the problem of disclosure lay ahead of us. One day she would have to know.

Robert was still at Wanstead when we heard that there had been an accident at Greenwich which could have cost the Queen her life.

It appeared that Simier was conducting her to her barge when one of the guards fired a shot. The Queen's bargeman, who was standing only six feet from her, was wounded in both arms and fell bleeding to the ground.

The man who had fired was seized immediately and the Queen turned her attention to the bargeman who lay at her feet.

When she had satisfied herself that he was not fatally wounded, she took off her scarf and bade those who were attending him to bind him up and stop the flow of blood, while she bent over him and begged him to be of good cheer, for he and his family should never want. The bullet had been meant for her, she was sure.

The man who had fired the shot—a certain Thomas Appletree —was dragged away, and the Queen went on to her barge, talking as she did so to Monsieur de Simier.

The incident was discussed throughout the country; and when Thomas Appletree was put on trial he declared that he had had no intention of shooting and that the firearm had gone off by accident.

The Queen, gracious as she always liked to be to her humble subjects, saw the man himself, and declared herself convinced of his honesty and that he was speaking the truth. He fell to his knees and told her with tears in his eyes that he had only ever had one wish and that was to serve her.

"I believe him," she cried. "It was an accident. I shall tell your master, my good Thomas, to take you back into his service."

Then she declared that the man who had been shot was to be well looked after and, as it turned out that he had not been badly hurt, the incident appeared to have been forgotten.

But this was not so. Many knew that the Earl of Leicester had quarreled with the Queen over the granting of the passport to the Duc d'Anjou. Simier complained that Leicester had done his best to make the mission a failure; and in view of Robert's reputation it was soon being hinted that he had arranged for the guard to shoot Simier.

Simier himself believed this and he was determined to have his revenge. We discovered in what manner when the Earl of Sussex came riding to Wanstead.

Thomas Radcliffe, third Earl of Sussex, was not a great friend of Robert's. In fact there was a fierce rivalry between them, and Robert was well aware that Sussex deplored the favors which the Queen had lavished on her favorite. Sussex was ambitious like the rest of those men who circulated about the Queen, but it was his boast that his only motive was to serve her and this he would do even if by so acting he offended her. He had little imagination or charm and was certainly not one of Elizabeth's favorite men, but she kept him for his honesty much as she kept Burleigh for his wisdom; and although she would berate them and vent her anger on them, she would always listen to them and often took their advice; she would never have dispensed with either of them.

Sussex was looking stern, I noticed, and not without a certain self-satisfaction, for the news he brought was that Simier, infuriated by what he believed to be an attack on his life by Leicester, had told the Queen what so many people already knew although it had been kept from her, that Robert and I were married.

Robert asked me to join them, for there was no purpose now in keeping my presence a secret.

"You are in deep trouble, Leicester," said Sussex. "You may well look dismayed. I have never seen the Queen in such a fury."

"What said she?" asked Robert quietly.

"At first she would not believe it. She screamed out that it was lies. She kept saying 'Robert would never do it. He would never dare.' Then she called you a traitor and said you had betrayed her."

Robert protested: "She has spurned me. She is at this time contemplating marriage. Why should my marriage be of such moment to her?"

"She would not listen to reason. She kept saying that she would send you to the Tower. She said you could rot in the Tower and she would be glad of it."

"She is ill," said Robert. "Only a sick woman could behave so. Why, she offered me to the Queen of Scots and was willing for me to marry the Princess Cecilia."

"My Lord Leicester, it is said that she would never have allowed those marriages to take place and if she had they would have been political marriages. It was when she heard whom you had married that her fury increased." He turned to me apologetically. "I will not, Madam, insult your ears by telling you the names the Queen called you. Indeed, it would seem her fury is more violent against you than against the Earl."

I could believe it. She would know of the passion between us. I had not been mistaken when I had seen her watching me so closely. She knew that there was a power in me to attract men, which for all her glory she lacked. She would picture Robert and me together and she would know that what we shared was something which, by her very nature, she could never enjoy. And she hated me for it.

"No, never before have I seen the Queen in such a passion," went on Sussex. "Indeed, I felt she was on the verge of madness. She kept declaring she would make you regret your actions—both of you. You, Leicester, she really wanted to send to the Tower. It was with the greatest difficulty that I restrained her from giving the order."

"Then I have to thank you, Sussex, for that."

Sussex gave Robert a look of dislike. "I saw at once that the Queen would harm herself by giving such an order. She would be allowing her emotions to override her good sense. I pointed out to her that it was no criminal act to enter into honorable marriage, and that if she showed her subjects how deeply enraged she was, they might put all manner of constructions on her conduct which would be detrimental to her. So, in due course, she relented, but she made it clear that she did not want to see you and that you should stay out of her way. You are to go to the Tower Mireflore in Greenwich Park and stay there. She has not said that you shall be guarded, but you are to consider yourself a prisoner."

"And I am to accompany my husband?" I asked.

"No, Madam, he is to go alone."

"And the Queen gave no orders for me?"

"She said she never wished to see you again, nor to hear your name spoken. And I must tell you, Madam, that when your name is mentioned she flies into such a passion that were you there she would be ready to send you straight to the block."

So the worst had happened. And we now had to face the consequences.

Robert lost no time in obeying the Queen's order and going to Mireflore. I went to my family at Durham House.

It was clear that we were all in disgrace, although after a few days the Queen relented somewhat and sent word to Robert that he could leave Mireflore and return to Wanstead, where I joined him.

Lady Mary Sidney came to visit us on her way to Penshurst. She felt it necessary to leave Court, for the Queen was so vituperative against her brother Robert, and particularly against me, that she found it distressing; and when she mentioned to the Queen that she was sure the Dudley family no longer enjoyed her favor and asked leave to retire to the country, this was granted. Elizabeth had said that she had been so badly treated by the very member of that family on whom she had lavished great favor, that it would be easier if she were not reminded of him. She would never forget what Lady Mary had done for her, but she was ready to allow her to retire to Penshurst for a while.

We would sit quietly with Lady Mary and talk of the future. I was pregnant and so longed for a son that I could let this storm pass over me. I was well aware that I should never again be welcome at Court and that the Queen was my enemy for life, for whatever she did—even if she married the Duc d'Anjou, which secretly I knew she never would—she would not forget that I had taken the man she loved, and would never forgive me for having made him so much in love with me that he had risked his future by marrying me. In spite of her self-deception over her charms, she knew very well that had it been a choice between two women, I would have been the chosen one. That knowledge would always be between us and she would hate me for it.

But I had married Robert; I was to bear his child; and just now I could snap my fingers at the Queen.

Lady Mary thought that this would be the end of the family's favor at Court, and it seemed very likely that the Queen would marry the Duc d'Anjou out of pique.

I did not agree with this. I knew her well, and I think that this rivalry between us had given me a rather special understanding of her. In so many superficial ways she was a hysterical, illogical woman, but beneath this she was as strong as steel. I did not think she would ever commit an act which did not seem to her politically wise. It was true she had given the passport which would bring Anjou to England. But the people were against an alliance with the French; the only reason for marriage could be to get an heir, and her age made that very uncertain; moreover, she would make herself ridiculous if she married this young boy. Yet, because she wanted the fun of courtship, because she wanted to create the illusion that she was nubile, and perhaps, too, because she was deeply hurt that Robert had married me she would continue with this farce.

Was this the act of a sensible, reasonable woman? Hardly. And yet, beneath it all was the iron hand of the shrewd ruler, the woman who knew how to make the cleverest men of her realm bow down before her and give the best of their talents in her service.

Never to be close to the Court again would create an emptiness in my life; but as long as we lived there would be a tie between us —the Queen and myself. It might even be strengthened by hatred. I had at last proved my own importance to her. I had scored the greatest victory of our campaign when I had so enslaved Leicester that he was prepared to flout her in order to marry me. There could have been nothing more revealing in the relationship between the three of us than that. And she would be fully aware of it. I had proved without question that I was by no means the insignificant third in our triangle.

Mary left for Penshurst, and soon after she had gone Robert received a summons from the Queen. He was to present himself.

Full of foreboding, he departed and in due course came back to Wanstead with mixed emotions.

She had belabored him, called him traitor and ungrateful man; she had enumerated all she had done for him, reminding him that she had raised him up and could as easily cast him down.

He had protested that she had made it clear over many years that she had no intention of marrying him and that he believed he had a right to family life and sons to follow him. He was ready to serve his Queen with his life, he had told her, but he had believed that he might enjoy the comforts of family life without impairing his service to his Queen and country.

She had listened grimly and then she had told him to beware. "I'll tell you this, Robert Dudley," she had shouted, "you have married a she-wolf and you will discover this to your cost."

So I became the She-Wolf. It was a habit of hers to bestow nicknames on those about her. Robert had always been her Eyes, Burleigh her Spirit, and Hatton her Mutton. I could see that forever after I should be the She-Wolf—the picture of me in her mind being that of a wild animal, seeking victims to satisfy my violent passions.

"She seems determined to have Anjou," said Robert.

"I'll swear she won't."

"In her present mood she is capable of anything. She was shouting and swearing at me in a voice which could have been heard throughout the palace."

"Nevertheless," I said, "I doubt she will take Anjou."