Queen Of This Realm

Father Parson's Green Coat

TWO YEARS HAD PASSED SINCE LEICESTER'S MARRIAGE. I saw to it that he was constantly at Court, keeping my promise to myself that I would exclude Lettice and separate the married pair as much as possible. This was not difficult, for when I commanded he must come; and as I would not receive her, she must perforce absent herself. When I visited his houses I gave notice that I was coming so that she could remove herself before I arrived. I liked to imagine her chagrin, which must have been great. I heard that she lived most splendidly, glorifying even Leicester's houses; she lived like a queen, it was said. That gave me grim amusement. A queen in exile, I thought.

I could not forget her. Whenever I saw Leicester I was reminded of her. He was as devoted to me as ever, but sometimes I wondered when he was at my side whether he would rather have been with Lettice.

Although he behaved as though his adoration of me had not diminished, he could no longer talk of marriage; but he never gave the slightest hint that he did not continue to regard me as the most desirable of women.

One New Year's Day his present to me was fifteen large gold buttons and three dozen smaller ones to match, all embellished with rubies and diamonds in the form of lovers' knots; and enchanting as they were in themselves, there was no mistaking the sentiment they expressed.

I could not help asking him whether his wife had assisted him in choosing them. He answered gravely that the choice had been entirely his.

I thought angrily: Oh Robert, I know there had to be women, but why could they not have been light love affairs such as you have had in countless numbers? Why did there have to be this one… and with that woman?

But I did not mention her often and I kept him beside me.

In the autumn of that year I met a wonderful man whose exploits filled me with pride and admiration. This was Francis Drake, a young man from Devon. When I say young, he was about forty years of age, and it is significant that I was beginning to think of such as young.

He was the greatest sailor in the country…in the world, I would venture to say, and he had performed a magnificent feat in sailing round the world.

Three years earlier I had learned of his intention to navigate the globe and bring back treasure from far places. It was a plan which appealed to me. I had always liked adventurous men, and had long realized that the strength of my country must lie in its Navy. We were an island; we needed special protection; so I had promoted the building of ships, and I wanted men such as Francis Drake to sail in them.

I could see that he was an adventurer—a man of daring with bold ideas and one who would not hesitate to carry them out. When the project had been suggested I had consulted Dr Dee, who had written a book called The Perfect Art of Navigation. It was clever as well as prophetic, and on his advice and that of Christopher Hatton, who was very much in favor of the scheme, I invested in it.

Hatton took it upon himself to manage these affairs and he himself invested heavily in the venture. This voyage of discovery appealed to me in more ways than one. The Spaniards were already probing the unknown world and I saw my country as a rival to Spain. If we could outwit the Spaniards so much the better, and if we encountered their treasure ships on the high seas, who was to stop us plundering them? Drake was the man to lead such an expedition. So with the financial investment he received, he fitted out his ship, the Pelican, for the voyage and chose those who would go with him. Before setting out he changed the name of the Pelican to the Golden Hind in honor of one of Hatton's heraldic beasts, for Hatton had made the voyage possible, not only financially but by helping Drake smooth over any political opposition there might have been. It was necessary to keep my good Burghley ignorant of the trip for he would certainly have raised all sorts of objections about the legality of maritime law. I suppose I was something of a buccaneer myself and that was why men such as Francis Drake appealed to me.

When Drake returned Hatton was beside himself with glee. The success of the enterprise had been beyond our most ambitious expectations. All those who had invested in the venture would share the profits, which were a four thousand seven hundred percent return on the original outlay. The hold of the Golden Hind was filled with precious stones and valuable articles, many of them taken from ships on their way to Spain. This was more than treasure. Drake had inflicted great damage on the grandeur of Spanish prestige. No Spanish ship had been able to cripple the Golden Hind and it and its crew had returned to port safely after three years of voyaging, and with enough treasure to make all its crew rich men.

The bullion was to be conveyed to a stronghold in the Tower. The Spanish Ambassador was furious. Christopher Hatton rejoiced and I said my old Bellwether had led me to a fortune. Robert and Walsingham both received four thousand pounds by royal warrant. Burghley and Sussex were the only two who refused to accept any of the spoils. Burghley had been offered ten golden bars and Sussex a service of gold plate. They both declined, declaring that they could not bring themselves to accept stolen goods.

I might have been annoyed with them, but I respected my men. I needed the upright ones like them as well as adventurers like Francis Drake. They all had their parts to play. I wanted all manner of able men in my service.

To show them that I had no qualms myself, I had a crown made from the diamonds and emeralds. There were five of these last which were of great size, quite three inches in length, and they made a wonderful frontage for the ornament. I wore it with great pride at the New Year's Day revelries and jocularly called Burghley's attention to my “booty.”

The Golden Hind was laid up at Deptford and Drake begged the honor of entertaining me on board. This was an invitation which I could not refuse after such service as Drake had rendered to the nation, so I went there and on the deck of the Golden Hind this brave man was knighted and I allowed him to conduct me to the banquet. I was surprised to find that he was such a small man—I had expected a giant—but he was full of energy. He was handsome enough with large clear brown eyes and brown hair, much bearded and with a cheerful expression. He was clearly delighted with his success—and he had every reason to be—and it was pleasant to see how he reveled in the honor which he had won.

I sat beside him at the dinner, which was lavish. The sight of so much food nauseated me a little, but I made a pretense of eating and those who knew my tastes made sure when they could that I was served very little.

I talked with some of the men who told me about their adventures sailing with Drake. They obviously admired him and I was not surprised for there was a power in him, the quality of a true leader. I learned that he took artists with him to paint the coasts in their true colors, and how even in times of hardship he had been served at table with ceremony and that music was played to him while he ate. He was what a leader must be—strict and just and never asking his men to take risks which he would not take himself.

As a memento of the occasion he gave me a silver casket and an ornament made of diamonds in the shape of a frog—a nice compliment to my suitor.

I liked Sir Francis Drake. This was a man I needed, for the treacherous Spaniards could never be trusted to keep the peace.

MY FEARS OF SPAIN did not diminish after the return of Drake—rather naturally they increased. I knew that the Spaniards were my greatest enemy, considered to be invincible on the high seas. I knew that Philip was a fanatic as far as religion was concerned, and I had always felt that fanaticism in religion could bring about the downfall of a monarch. I had long since made up my mind that it should never be so in my case. I could never see why there should be these schisms, these differences. Surely it was enough to be a Christian, which simply meant following the teachings of Christ.

But there were few men or women who would agree with me. Religion was something they took very seriously.

Never far from my thoughts was the Queen of Scots who was still in England. I could never quite make up my mind whether she would have been more of a danger to me free than she was as my prisoner. While she lived there would always be plots about her. She was the Catholic figurehead. I had been constantly warned by men of such differing motives as Robert and Burghley that she should go. I had had my chance at the time of the Ridolfi plot, when the best of excuses had been given to me for bringing about her end. Yet I had shrunk from signing her death warrant.

None could know more than I the dangers I faced. My people were largely Protestant. They were Protestants by nature. They lacked that singleminded religious fervor which seemed to go hand in hand with Catholicism; they were tolerant by nature; they were always prepared to let things stay as they were, feeling, I am sure, that changing them might bring about unpleasantness. I understood them perfectly for after all I was one of them. Perhaps that was why we fitted each other so well.

But I must not forget that there were those who rebelled against the new order. We were a Protestant country not because I was a Protestant. I would have been ready to be a Catholic if that was what my people demanded of their monarch. The rites and ceremonies of the Church affected me little. My need was to give the people what they wanted.

My enemies were the Catholics and there was the Catholic Queen whom they were plotting to put on my throne. Before they could do so they must remove me—and consequently they plotted my assassination. The Pope had given help—financial and spiritual—to my enemies; there was constant plotting in various parts of the country and the Spaniards were just waiting for their opportunity. The French, too, had their schemes—shelved temporarily because of the courtship being conducted sporadically between myself and their little Duc d'Anjou.

And how important it was to keep that going! And how long could I manage it? For the answers to those questions I must wait and see.

In the meantime I must beware of Catholics.

New laws were made forbidding the Mass, and any caught partaking in it would be fined two hundred marks and be condemned to a year's imprisonment. Any who tried to draw my subjects from the country's religion— and this was aimed mostly at priests—were considered to be guilty of high treason.

I knew there were secret gatherings in various country houses. I knew that they kept their priests hidden in order that they could continue to conduct the Mass. In many of the old houses nooks and crannies had been turned into priests' holes into which the priests could scuttle at a moment's notice to prevent their arrest. What else did they talk of when they met in secret? I could not believe that it was only religion.

I would have been happier without these rules for I had always wanted my people to worship in a manner best suited to their needs and beliefs. The present position had been forced on me. Because of the implacable hatred of Philip of Spain, I felt it necessary to keep a watchful eye on Catholic households, and if any were caught breaking the religious laws they must be brought to trial.

Thus it was that Edmund Campion came to be arrested.

How fervently I wished in the years to come that it had never been necessary to do to him what was done. If only such men would keep to their learning, in which we all agreed they excelled. Why must they concern themselves with religion? Why could they not accept the laws of the land and do what they must in secret?

They had a certain nobility, those men, I granted them that. But they were fools; though it is true that in becoming martyrs they did more for their faith than they ever did by preaching.

Campion was a great scholar. I remembered him from when I had visited Oxford, for he had made a beautiful speech in Latin which had delighted me. I had asked about him and when he had been presented to me we conversed, he responding most gracefully and with the utmost charm. He went to Ireland where he wrote a book about that country; but it was there that he became so fervently Catholic and religion was the most important factor in his life. He had entered the Order of the Jesuits some eight years before and since then he had been in England as a missionary, whose great purpose was to turn people to his faith.

He was a celebrated man, a man much admired for his scholarship and nobility. Such men are dangerous.

He had, of course, been touring the country, staying in Catholic houses, hiding himself away in priests' holes when Walsingham's men of my secret service came prowling round.

He was caught eventually in the house of a gentleman at Lyford in Berkshire, betrayed by a man named George Eliot who had been a steward in one of the houses he had visited. Campion was taken with two other priests and lodged in the Tower.

Walsingham was sure that there were plots brewing all over the country and that the object of these was to kill me and set Mary Stuart on the throne. He suspected every Catholic priest of being a traitor. I knew this was not the case and I believed that many of these men were concerned only with religion, but they could in truth be spies and I did see the need to scent them out.

Walsingham's method, when a priest was caught, was to draw from him the names of the houses he had visited, the intention being to keep a watch on those houses for possible plotters. The priests were often reluctant to betray their friends and in some cases they had to be cruelly persuaded. Campion was one of these. I was sorry to hear this.

“He has been racked,” said Walsingham, “but even in the extremity of his pain would admit nothing.”

I did not want to hear of this man's being tortured. I could not forget his young, innocent face when he had made his Latin oration to me. He was a brilliant scholar and I hated to think of such a man's being destroyed. Surely it would have been possible to reason with him, to point out the folly of setting such store in a few differences in the same religion. He might ask the same of me, but the answer was, of course, that I served my people. The majority of them wanted a Protestant monarch, so they had one. They had had enough of Catholicism during my sister's reign, and even though it was necessary now and then to arrest and torture men like Campion, who were fundamentally good, we were not inflicting on our people the horrors which were being endured under the dreaded Inquisition.

I would fight with everything I had to keep that fanatical institution out of my country; and that was why, if it was necessary to inflict torture on those Catholics whose aim was to introduce Spanish methods into this country, we must do so. It was nothing compared with what the Catholics were doing to those whom they called heretics.

I told Walsingham that I should like to see Campion and speak to him myself.

Walsingham was taken aback and said he would be afraid for my safety if such a man were admitted to my presence.

“Afraid of Edmund Campion! My dear Moor, that man would not hurt a fly.”

“He is a fanatical Catholic, and Your Majesty knows that the Catholics plot to set the Queen of Scots on your throne.”

“I do not think Edmund Campion will harm me.”

I was so insistent that it was arranged that Campion be brought from the Tower that I might see him.

Robert was greatly alarmed at the prospect. “The man may have a concealed weapon,” he insisted.

“He has come straight from the Tower, Robert. He has been grievously racked. I doubt he can walk without pain and difficulty.”

Robert said: “I cannot allow it.”

“And I cannot allow my subjects to forbid it, Robert,” I replied.

He was on his knees, taking my hand and kissing it.

“How can you torment me so? How can I rest while you are in danger?”

“Nonsense!” I retorted. “And you can rest very well in the arms of your she-wolf. You have more to fear in that woman than I have in Edmund Campion!”

He begged at length to be allowed to be present at the meeting and that it should take place at Leicester House. I agreed, for that meant Lettice would have to move out and that always pleased me.

So Robert, the Earl of Bedford and two secretaries were present when Edmund Campion was brought to me.

I was horrified to see that once handsome young man; he now looked haggard and he found walking difficult. Poor man, they had treated him roughly on the rack. I felt angry with his tormentors and exasperated with him. He might have been leading a very pleasant life at Oxford.

I told him this and that it displeased me to see him in such state, to which he replied that he did what God told him to.

“Oh,” I said sharply, “you are on intimate terms with Him then?”

He said that he conferred with God.

“You appear to think that none of the rest of us do.”

“Oh no, Your Majesty,” he said. “I trust all will pray to God and come to the truth.”

“Then I will pray for you, Edmund Campion,” I retorted. “I will pray that you cease this folly. I would rather see you as I saw you once before in Oxford using the talents God has given you than here like this.”

“God has spoken to me,” he said. “I do His work.”

“And fine trouble that has brought you!”

“It is of no matter, Madam. What happens to my body is but passing pain. I look to eternal bliss.”

“Which is reserved for those who worship in the way you choose for them, I suppose.”

“I believe in the Catholic Faith,” he said.

I could see that it was useless to try to reason with him. I felt impatient with him and yet he saddened me. I wanted to show those present that he was a good man, an innocent man; all he wanted was to worship in a certain way. If only the stupid man would do it quietly in his home! Why did he have to go round the country hiding in priests' holes, behaving like a criminal?

I said to him: “Do you acknowledge me as your Queen?”

He answered fervently: “Not only for my Queen but my lawful Queen.”

I had known it. He was no traitor.

“Do you believe that the Pope could excommunicate me lawfully?”

He hesitated. He did not want to admit that he considered the Pope to stand above me in the Church for that indeed was against the law.

He said cautiously: “It is not for me to decide in a controversy between Your Majesty and the Pope.”

I did not want to implicate him further because I feared he might go so far that there would be no hope of saving him.

If only it had been possible to save him I would have done so, but he would not help me to it. He was determined to be a martyr.

Shortly after he was arraigned with seven others at Westminster Hall. He was a brave and a brilliant man and he answered his judges with wit and distinction; but he was in a pitiable state and I heard that he was unable to hold up his hand when pleading in the required manner because he had been so brutally racked. The wretched George Eliot, who had been responsible for his capture, was the main witness against him and his evidence was proved to be unreliable. But Walsingham, stern Protestant that he was, was determined to allow no possible spies for Philip of Spain, no adherents of Mary of Scotland, to slip through his net. He wanted a verdict of guilty and he got it.

When Lord Chief Justice Wray asked the prisoners if they had anything to say as to why they did not deserve death, Campion replied: “It is not our death that we fear. We know that we are not lords of our own lives and therefore for want of an answer would not be guilty of our own deaths. The only thing we have to say now is that if our religion does make us traitors then we are worthy to be condemned; but otherwise we are, and have been, true subjects of the Queen. In condemning us you condemn all your ancestors—all ancient priests, bishops and kings—all that once were the glory of England. What have we taught, however you may qualify it with the odious name of treason, that they did not teach? God lives. Posterity will live. Their judgment is not so liable to corruption as those who are now going to sentence us to death.”

Such talk could not fail to impress and inspire… and perhaps alarm… and people grow vicious when frightened.

I was deeply disturbed—as I so often was by the need to inflict death… I had not forgotten my mother's fate. I thought that Campion should not have been condemned, though I knew that, as a practical matter, Walsingham was right. I was in acute danger. The blow could come from the least expected quarter. I had to put my safety in the hands of my good and careful Moor; and he would allow no one the chance of harming me if he could help it.

I was glad that Edmund Campion escaped the final painful humiliation. They cut him up after his death, not before. What a concession!

I prayed for him that night. I asked forgiveness of God for my part in his death, and I took some comfort to know that he had left that poor tortured body of his behind him forever.

I knew that he was a good man, and I could not forget his bright and clever face as it had been when he had welcomed me to Oxford.

I COULD NOT keep Anjou dangling forever, much as I should like to gain more time. The situation in the Netherlands was even more delicate. That poor country had constantly asked me for aid against the Spanish and I had hesitated to give it, fearing it might involve my people in conflict. The French, however, had become very alarmed at the prospect of Spain's obtaining dominance there. On the other hand, they were a Catholic country and we were menaced by the Catholics of Europe who might join together to attack England. Fortunately there was a bitter rivalry among themselves.

My little Prince had always been a trouble to his family. His mother had no great love for him, nor had his brother; and it must have seemed a good idea to send him to the Netherlands to help the people against the Spaniards, since the last thing France wanted was to see a triumphant Spain. Anjou had flirted with the Protestant Faith, though he was no more stable in that direction than he had been in others. Therefore, why should he not go to the Netherlands independently of France—but secretly aided by them—and wage war on Spain?

This seemed to me an excellent idea. It was fighting my war for me and it was a state of affairs which I wanted to continue for as long as possible— as long as he was fighting independently of France, for to contemplate French domination of the Netherlands was even more alarming than that of Spain as they were closer to us and could invade more easily.

It was a very complicated and intricate situation and it needed the most skillful diplomacy. I must keep Anjou fighting in the Netherlands and he must be on my side… not that of the French. The French doubtless saw the marriage as bringing England back to Catholicism and obviously thought that when Anjou was victorious, they would join up with him and his victory would be that of the French.

I had no doubt that the wily Catherine de' Medici believed that she could rid herself of her troublesome son and win the Netherlands for France at the same time; and I had to keep her believing that that was what she was going to achieve.

But she was becoming impatient. Walsingham reported that the King of France and his mother were exasperated by my delaying tactics with regard to the marriage; they were behaving in a very cool manner toward the English envoys and himself. Not content with complaining to my Council, he had the temerity to write lecturing me.

I smiled to think of what my father's reactions would have been to such a letter. Walsingham's head would have been in acute danger. But I understood. I respected my Moor. He was a man of courage and immense ability so I meant to keep his head where it could best serve me, even though it meant suppressing my irritation. There was logic in his reasoning and it did bring home to me the fact that I could not play this game much longer.

It was galling to see that my devious diplomacy was not always appreciated by my most able ministers. I had to play the part of a vain, coquettish woman—not so difficult for in some ways I was one—but they did forget that I was also an astute politician. When they came to look back over the past three years, they would see what advantage I had brought to my country by holding off the French while I could build up our defenses. I had plans, too, which might amaze them, for my little Anjou was a weathercock in his politics and I believed that he would sway toward whichever side could bring him a touch of glory. Poor little Frog, so unprepossessing, with a brother a King occupying a throne which he had hoped to get for himself, and with a mother who dominated her children and decided the policy of France. They would see how my plans for him worked out … if they would only be patient. But I must play the game my way and I could not yet explain to my Moor, or even to my Spirit. There must be no hint that matters were otherwise than they appeared to be, and if I was to play my part with conviction, I had to believe in the role I was playing.

It was agreed that Anjou should come to England again and this time there should be a definite decision.

Walsingham returned. “You knave,” I said to him. “In the beginning you were against the marriage … none more so. Now you see it as inevitable…as part of an alliance with France. You are like a weathercock, Master Moor.”

He was disconcerted but unrepentant. Men such as he do what they think right and no one—king or queen—is going to divert them.

I gave him a sharp slap on the arm and said: “You will see.” But he knew that though I was displeased with him, I recognized him as a devoted servant, and his allegiance was even stronger because he respected me, though he believed, like the rest, that I had gone too far in this matter of the marriage. It was going to be difficult to extricate myself. I alone had to do that, and I was not quite ready yet. I had still to keep the French anxious and the Spaniards guessing.

When Anjou came, fresh from his victory after the relief of Cambrai, we welcomed him as the future consort of the Queen should be received, and so we set out to entertain him royally. We erected what we called a temporary banqueting hall in Whitehall which cost the amazing sum of one thousand, seven hundred and forty-four pounds, nineteen shillings, and we went to the further expense of putting the guests in luxurious lodgings in the area. I gave a splendid dinner party and so did Leicester and Burghley. The language presented some difficulty and Burghley produced some clever young interpreters, so that there should be no misunderstanding of what was being said and it should be clear that we wished to honor our guests. Among those clever young men was one who had come into prominence lately: young Francis Bacon, son of Nicholas and nephew of Burghley, who had already brought him to my notice.

We did everything we could to make this a splendid occasion. I wanted no one to guess just yet that I intended to break off the negotiations. All the finest furnishings were brought to Whitehall—pictures, carpets, plate, everything; and we had great entertainments such as jousting and bear-baiting as well as the banquets.

I had lulled the fears of the French and added to those in my subjects' minds. That could not be helped. There would have to be an understanding soon.

Anjou returned to France, triumphant, with plans to come to England in October—six months later—when all the documents would be ready and all that would be needed was his signature and mine.

There were rumors from the Continent. The French were growing restive. The Spaniards were secretly jeering. Delay, they said. Constant delay. The Queen of England does not intend to make this marriage.

Burghley told me that the Spaniards were gambling on it—one hundred to one against.

It could not go on. My ministers were very anxious. They had almost made up their minds that there would be a marriage. I was touched to realize that one of their main anxieties was that I might attempt to bear a child and endanger my life. There was no doubt that they wanted me to remain their Queen.

When October came, Anjou arrived at Rye. My clever Walsingham— the eternal spy—had arranged that prostitutes should be supplied for the French to make them happy. Not only did these women make the French happy, but Walsingham and Burghley also, because they came away with details of secret documents which gave us an idea of the French attitude. Thus we learned that if there was no marriage this time, there would be an end to the negotiations.

There was no doubt in the minds of my ministers that I had brought myself to an impasse and it seemed to them that there was no way out but through marriage.

I was as determined as ever to remain unmarried but I would not admit this… yet.

When Anjou and I met we greeted each other with great affection. He fell to his knees and regarded me, his grotesque face alight with adoration.

I stooped and kissed him, telling him that I had longed for this meeting. Robert was standing by and I noticed with pleasure that he looked very angry.

“Let us walk in the gallery,” I said to Anjou. “I want to hear of your journey and to tell you of my joy in seeing you.”

Anjou and I walked a few paces ahead with Robert and Walsingham behind when Mauvissiére the French Ambassador came in unannounced. He made his way straight to me and said that he had orders from the King of France that he must without delay have a statement from me as to whether or not I intended to marry the Duc d'Anjou.

Here was a difficulty. What could I say? It was a matter of yes or no; and I was not yet ready for a no.

So I replied in the only way possible. I said: “You may write and tell this to the King: The Duc shall be my husband.”

Then I turned to my little Prince and kissed him on the mouth, and taking a ring from my finger I put it on his.

Anjou was overcome with joy. He immediately took a ring from his finger and put it on mine.

We had plighted our troth.

“Come with me,” I said, and I led him from the gallery to a chamber in which many of my courtiers were gathered. I told them in a voice which was audible throughout the room what had taken place.

The news spread rapidly. There was to be a marriage.

ROBERT BURST INTO my chamber. I had never seen him so upset.

“What are you doing here?” I demanded. “How dare you come in thus unannounced?”

He said: “I have just witnessed that scene in the gallery.”

“Scene? My Lord Leicester, I don't understand you!”

This was how I liked Robert—all fire and jealousy. He could not be regretting a crown now since he was no longer free to marry. This was pure jealousy… for me.

“That… that frog …” he stammered.

I laughed and said: “Robert, you look as though you will explode. I like not that purple tinge in your face. To tell the truth it worries me. You will have an apoplectic fit one day, and none to blame but yourself. You eat too much… you drink too much. How often have I told you!”

He took me by the shoulders. Why did I allow such liberties? I suppose if one allows them in one direction one must in another. There had never been, nor ever could be, any relationship in my life like that I shared with Robert. I was happy now because he was jealous, because for a time at least he had forgotten Lettice.

He cried: “I demand to know. Are you that man's mistress?”

I laughed at him and he shook me. I was too astounded to answer for a few moments. Then I remembered my dignity.

“My lord Leicester,” I said, “you take great liberties with me. Perhaps I have favored you too much and you have grown to believe you possess powers… even over me. You are mistaken, my lord. I could send you to the Tower in five minutes. Take your hands from me at once.”

He obeyed and stood looking at me, the anger still in his face.

“Are you that man's mistress?” he repeated, almost pleadingly.

“My lord Leicester,” I said with great dignity, “I am the mistress of you all.”

He looked so distressed. He could not bear to think that I had given to another that which I had always denied him. He could always soften me. It was only when he was absent that I could be really angry with him.

“Robert,” I said, “I have promised myself that I shall go to my grave a virgin. I still intend to do that.”

He took my hand and kissed it then and I touched the dark curling hairs at the back of his neck as he did so.

I said gently: “You may go now.”

I COULD SEE now that the farce was at an end. The French had ceased to help Anjou in the Netherlands, so the situation was changing. I would have to come out in the open. A few days after the scene in the gallery, I arose and declared to my ladies that I had had a sleepless night, which was true, for I was deeply anxious as to how I was going to plan the next scene.

When the Duc came to me, I said that I thought I could not endure another night like that through which I had just passed. I had been torn by my emotions and I was going to make the biggest sacrifice a woman had ever made. “I shall give up the thought of marriage for the sake of my people,” I added.

He was dumbfounded and did not know what to say for a few moments. I could understand his confusion. I went on to say that I knew that if I married I would not live more than a few months. My people needed me and for their sakes I would not marry.

It was all such nonsense. No wonder he was bewildered, but when he realized that I meant what I said, he burst into tears and cried out that he would rather we were both dead than not married.

“My dear little Frog,” I replied, “you must not threaten a poor old woman in her kingdom.”

He said: “I meant no harm to your blessed person but I would rather be cut in pieces than not marry you and so be laughed at by the world.”

So that was it. He feared ridicule.

“Alas, alas,” I consoled him. “My heart is yours, little Frog, and now it is broken. But I am a queen and must do my duty.”

“But it has gone too far. Your people know. They accept…”

“I know, little one. Leave this to me. My dear little Prince, how can I let you go?”

Perhaps I went too far for the purple color flooded his angry face. Never had he looked more grotesque; and now there was real misery on his ugly little face; he looked like a poor little frog who has been turned out of a very pleasant pond.

Tears welled up in his eyes and fell down his pitted cheeks. I took a kerchief from my waist and mopped his eyes.

“There! You are a great commander, remember. You will know great glory. I am sure of it.”

In a fit of temper he took off the ring which I had given him and threw it onto the ground.

“English women are like their weather,” he said bitterly. “They are all smiles one day and rain the next.”

Poor little man. He was indeed put out.

I must be careful, though. I still had to think of a French alliance with Spain.

I continued to wipe his eyes, for the tears were still running down his cheeks. Tears of rage, I noted. Poor little Anjou, his mother would say, once again he has failed.

I said: “Perhaps this is not final…”

Hope leaped into his eyes. Could I really keep him dangling a little longer? If I could do that and keep him fighting in the Netherlands, the French and Spaniards would not form an alliance. Was it possible?

He looked a little hopeful. He was clutching at hope, anything rather than to appear to the world as the rejected one.

It would offer him small comfort to know that I had never intended to take him. I had played my part so successfully that I had deluded him into thinking that I would.

“We will talk later,” I said.

Then he left me, his tears dried and a new hope in his heart.

BURGHLEY, WALSINGHAM AND THE rest were amazed at what I had done. Robert was secretly amused, and not surprised, I think. Perhaps he had known me better than the others.

“I have given him hope,” I said.

“He will never believe that again.”

“Perhaps not. But we have to help the little man to regain his selfrespect. Let me see the settlements you have drawn up.”

I took them and said: “There is one clause which must be added. The French must return Calais.”

“They will never do that!” cried Hatton aghast.

“Assuredly they will not. That is why I shall demand it. Only the return of Calais will induce me to go on with the marriage.”

“They would never let us back on their territory even for marriage.”

“Exactly so. That is why we make this a necessary condition. We have kept Anjou in the Netherlands; we have delayed an agreement between France and Spain; and we have gained important time. Our ships are being built in our dockyards. The prospect of that French marriage has served us well. I should have liked to go on with negotiations a little longer, which would have served us even better. But the end is in sight. However, let us be grateful for the help it has given us.”

They were astounded, but I saw the respect in their faces.

Burghley said solemnly: “The people of this country will know one day that their greatest ruler was Elizabeth.”

“In the meantime,” I said, “I shall be very happy with their affection. I believe there is rejoicing in the streets now because the news has leaked out that I have refused the French marriage. No, I do not wish my little Frog Prince to suffer too deep a humiliation. I was in fact quite fond of the little fellow. He was amusing and some of you would do well to learn from his gracious manners. So I am going to offer him money to continue the struggle in the Netherlands. They need help against the Spaniards. They have asked us for it again and again. Well, we will help them through Anjou, and my little Prince can fight our battles for us.”

They were further surprised but I could see the excitement in their faces.

“It will have to be decided how much we can give him. It will have to be substantial. As you know, I am not in favor of Englishmen fighting wars—but I fully approve of others doing it for them.”

I was delighted by the admiration I saw in their eyes … admiration and pride…in me, their Queen.

I looked at Robert, and he was smiling at me.

IT WAS LESS difficult than I had imagined it to be to placate my little Frog.

“Why,” I said, “you have shown us all what a brilliant commander you are.”

I looked at him sharply. Was that too blatant? He had often shown that that was the last thing he had proved himself to be. He swallowed it. He was thinking of his one success at Cambrai.

“My dear little Frog,” I went on, “you are going to prove yourself even more. You will subdue the Spaniards in the Netherlands and come back to us a hero.”

He was already seeing himself féted, riding through the streets of London—a conquering hero. And finally, I should marry him after all and he would be able to laugh in the faces of both his brother and his mother. King of England! I was sure he could feel the crown already on his head.

“I have talked over this matter with my Council and it has been agreed that you shall have sixty thousand pounds—half within fifteen days of leaving and the other half fifty days after that.”

He seemed delighted, and we smiled and chatted together, resuming our old relationship.

He lingered though and as I was eager for him to go, and realized that he lacked the funds to start, I arranged that he should be given 10,000 at once.

“Now there is nothing to hold you back,” I said. “And I am going to send you an escort, at the head of which shall be the finest man in my kingdom.”

They all knew who that was.

“And I myself shall accompany you to Canterbury,” I added.

And so departed my little Duc. I rode between him and Robert on the way to Canterbury. Robert looked magnificent. He always did on such occasions. He loved the pomp and glitter. What a king he would have made!

The people came out to cheer as we went along. I smiled and waved. They were expressing their delight in the departure of my suitor.

I wondered if there would be another. Regretfully I doubted it. The game of courtship had always fascinated me. I enjoyed every minute because always at the end there was escape. It was the journey which was appealing, never the arrival. I wondered whether Robert and Lettice were as delighted with each other as they had been in the beginning. He must have thought a great deal of her to marry her and risk my wrath.

I smiled secretly. He would not be seeing her for a little while. She would know that he was riding beside me to Canterbury because I had selected him for the task of escorting Anjou. How she must be longing to come to Court! Go on longing, Lettice, I thought, I will never give you that satisfaction.

The time had come to say farewell and I embraced Anjou with a show of tenderness.

I said: “I would give a million pounds to have my little Frog swimming in the Thames.”

To which he replied that he would come back with honors, and when he did there should be a marriage.

I sent for Robert.

“Now, my lord,” I said, “you must take good care not to offend me as you have done of late.”

He looked bewildered and asked in what way he had offended me.

“By not taking care of yourself. I watched you at dinner. You could scarcely get rid of the food in your mouth before you were shoveling in the next mouthful. You eat like a pig. You drink too much. Robert Dudley, I will not have it.”

“My sweet lady …” he began.

“There will be no sweetness from me if you do not take better care of yourself. And I tell you this, if I hear of any disorder attacking you, I shall blame you for it.”

His eyes looked yearningly at me in a manner which I knew so well and I said gently: “Robin, take care.”

The cavalcade rode on to Dover, and when I heard that the Duc d'Anjou had set sail I went to my apartments and laughed aloud.

Hearing my laughter, two of my women came in and I seized them both and danced round the chamber with them.

I had to rejoice. I had come out of a dangerous situation very well indeed.

BUT I WAS NOT really satisfied until Robert was safely back.

Burghley came to tell me that he had seen him.

“And how looked he?” I said.

“In good health and high spirits, Your Majesty.”

“I am glad.”

“He said he left Anjou like an old hulk run ashore high and dry stuck in a sandbank.”

“And he thought that amusing, did he?”

“He thought the Duc was rather ridiculous.”

I said coldly: “My Lord Leicester gives himself airs and is pleased to laugh at his betters. He is a traitor like all his horrible family.”

Burghley did not comment. He knew that whatever I said of Robert was said in affection; and no one would be allowed to criticize him in my hearing no matter what I said about him.

I went on: “This has been a costly matter, eh… this ridding ourselves of this suitor of mine?”

“Your Majesty,” said Burghley, “we have paid a good price, but when we consider, I think we shall decide that what we paid was cheap for what we have gained.”

I smiled and nodded and I thought: I will send for Robert and hear his version of the journey; and the prospect of seeing Robert always put me in a good mood.

IT NOW SEEMED clear to both Robert and me that whatever happened the bonds which held us together would never be broken; they might slacken or become frayed; but the relationship between us was different from any either of us had with another person. It was deep affection, I was sure; it had always been passionate and romantic, and all the more lasting because it had never reached what people called fulfillment. How many people fall madly in love and find their passion fading when their senses become satiated? Our affection had been kept constantly in flower because we had never allowed it to wither through excess. Was he as devoted to Lettice as he had been when he married her? I was sure he could not be; when I sent for him he came with such alacrity.

He had offended me never so much as he had by his marriage. With anyone else it would have been the end. Not with Robert. There could only be one ending to my love for him and that was Death.

Robert believed entirely in himself. Since I had shown that my affection for him was unimpaired, he had become more egotistical, more self-seeking, even more ambitious. If he had not been so, I doubted whether I should have admired him as I did. Robert never gave up. He had failed to marry me and in desperation had at last turned to Lettice. He had wanted his son to be heir to the throne, but he had had to make do with Lettice's child instead of mine. But he still had plans, and when I heard what those plans were I was almost as overcome with rage as I had been when I heard of his marriage.

Sussex told me of them. Trust Sussex. He never failed to bring me notice of anything concerning Robert which he thought would weaken my regard for him. He need not have bothered. I knew my Robert better than anyone else did.

Sussex said: “I trust my lord Leicester has consulted Your Majesty regarding the arrangements for the marriages in his family.”

“Arrangements,” I gasped. “What arrangements?”

“Those of his son and his stepdaughter.”

“That baby! And his stepdaughter. Wasn't she married a little while ago to Lord Rich?”

“That was Penelope, the elder daughter, Your Majesty.”

“A saucy wench, that one. She has something of her mother in her. A wanton brood … all of them. She was after young Philip Sidney at one time. He wrote some verses for her. Then she married Rich and young Sidney turned to Walsingham's girl. What marriages do you speak of?”

“There is another daughter—Dorothy. And Leicester is sending out feelers to Scotland to James, for he fancies a match between his stepdaughter Dorothy and Mary of Scotland's son.”

I was dumbfounded. Dorothy Devereux! That she-wolf's cub to be Queen of Scotland! Aye, and if some would have it, Queen of England! What was Robert thinking of? He must be mad to think I would ever agree to that!

“I thought Your Majesty should know of my lord Leicester's ambitions. Moreover he suggests Arabella Stuart for his son.”

“I find this impossible to believe,” I said. “I always knew my lord Leicester had pretensions to grandeur. Send for him without delay.”

Robert came, all eagerness. The rascal could not know that I had heard of his latest schemes, or perhaps he thought I was so besotted with him that I would agree to them. I admitted to myself that I must have given him grounds for believing that. After my initial rage, I had accepted his marriage and the only consequence of that was the banishment of Lettice Knollys from Court. Yes, I could see that Robert believed he could act in whatever way he fancied and still keep my affection. He had a lesson to learn.

When he saw my face he paused for I was glowering at him.

“So, my lord Leicester,” I said, “you are making plans to advance your wife's family.”

He was a little taken aback. How long, I wondered, had he been working in the dark to bring about these marriages behind my back? That made the whole project even worse. It was deceitful. He was a wicked man, my Robert.

“I…er… thought there was no harm…Of course my son is but a baby yet…”

“Royal princes are often betrothed in their cradles and grand alliances are made for them,” I cried. “It is a pretty pass when plans are made for royal marriages and kept in secret from the only one who could give permission for them to take place. You have too high an opinion of yourself, Robert Dudley. You and that she-wolf give yourselves too many airs. How dare you seek to set your son on the throne!”

“Your Majesty, I never thought for one moment—”

“You never thought for one moment! You would marry your son to Arabella Stuart. I can see how your mind works, my lord. Arabella Stuart, daughter of Charles Stuart, whose brother Darnley married Mary of Scotland. Arabella's father is the grandson of my father's sister. Royal connections, eh? Claims to the throne. And born English too. The English like an English Queen, do they not? Just in case James Stuart does not reach the throne, Arabella might. Two chances … Dorothy Devereux for James— your stepdaughter, no less—and your son for Arabella. What reasoning, Robert! Two lines to success. But first of all the old lady has to die…or to be put out. What are your plans for that, master plotter?”

Robert had turned pale.

“How can you talk so? You know that if aught happened to you, my very desire for living would be at an end.”

“I should not let that trouble you, Robert Dudley. You would have your she-wolf to comfort you … and her cubs all bringing you close to the throne.”

He said: “It was merely an idea. When one has responsibilities to others, one has to seek the best for them.”

“Oh yes, indeed. I tell you this: I will see that no such glory comes to your wife… through her cubs. You will regret the day you married her. Her daughter is like her… leading Philip Sidney on to write poems about her and then to marry Rich…I suppose because he lived up to his name.”

“She married Rich most reluctantly,” said Robert.

“Oh? Had she her eyes on James of Scotland?”

“You misjudge her.”

“Poof! I am glad Philip Sidney is having Walsingham's girl and not marrying into that breed. That must be a comfort for your sister. And as for your plans, they are at an end. Do you understand?”

“They had not gone very far. Just an idea…”

“Robert Dudley, I advise you to curb your ideas. They could carry you into trouble.”

He did not speak and as always when he was downcast I was sorry for him.

I had already made up my mind that the suggestions for these grand marriages had come from her not him. After all, they were for the glorification of her children.

I dismissed him, pretending to be angry with him, but after a few days he was back; and it was as though that incident had never happened.

I SUFFERED A sad loss that year. I had a great affection for my men, and although it was a different kind of love I had for some than for others, my feelings went deep. Sussex was a man I had admired; he was not exactly in the courtier class; there had never been any frivolous flirtation with him, but I had respected him. He lacked the brilliance of men like Burghley and Bacon, nor had he the astuteness of Walsingham; he lacked the charm of Robert, Hatton and Heneage and such. But he was a good man—a man of high principles. Many were the differences I had had with him, but I respected him for that. He had been ill for some time and I hated illness. It frightened me. They all knew this and did not speak of it in my presence— except in the case of Robert, who used it to extricate himself from difficult situations. That was different. Real illness was a depressing subject and because those about me knew how I felt regarding it, they behaved as though it did not exist.

I had seen Sussex laboring to get his breath and trying to pretend this was not so. I had insisted on one occasion that he go to the baths at Buxton, and he had gone. He had hated leaving Court, partly because he believed that, without anyone to curb him, Leicester would be more powerful than ever.

He loathed Leicester and greatly deplored my devotion to him. Like most upright and somewhat self-righteous men, Sussex imagined that others were worse than they were. He saw himself as an honest man, a man who would put his life at risk rather than act against his principles. While I respected such attitudes I often distrusted the men who held them. They grew into fanatics, and I had found that those who set themselves up as of impregnable virtue could often be much more cruel than those who suffered from ordinary human frailties. I knew Robert was ambitious, greedy, selfseeking, devious, ruthless and perhaps even capable of murder. But he was still the most exciting and attractive man I had ever known.

Understanding them all, seeing clearly into their minds and not being of a very upright nature myself—except perhaps where my country was concerned—I could forgive men their foibles and love them none the less for them. I was as good a statesman as any of my men, but in addition I possessed a certain insight which was entirely feminine. It was not merely intuition—but that might have been part of it; it was an immense interest in people, which most men lack. They are too absorbed in themselves to bother much with other people's motives. Women want to know what is going on; they are insatiably curious. This gives my sex that extra knowledge of how people's minds work; it helps us to assess how they will act in certain circumstances. I had this quality in excess; I was entirely female; but at the same time I could grapple with state matters as skillfully as my most able councilors. Since I could bring to problems my feminine flexibility and did not mind a little not-always-honest juggling, I was more fitted to rule my country than any of my men would have been, clever though they were. I owed this to the fact that I picked my advisers with skill; I understood them; I accepted their foibles; and I gave them my loyalty, which is the best way of getting that most essential gift in exchange.

Another fact was that I loved them all. They were my men and my children. They knew this and because in every man there is a desire for a mother figure…I was that too. I scolded them as though they were my wayward children, and they loved me for it. Even to those who looked upon me as a mistress—by which I mean a lover—I was a mother too. I looked to their health and when any one of them was ill that gave me great concern, which was what I felt for dear old Sussex at this time. He was fifty-seven years old—not so much older than I, seven years to be precise. A sobering thought.

Then came the day when I was asked to visit him at his home in Bermondsey. I went at once and was deeply grieved to see how ill he was.

I took his hand and he tried to kiss mine but I would not let him exert himself. “No, my dear friend, I forbid it. You must rest. Save your breath. That is your Queen's command.”

“My lady,” he said, “my joy in life has been to serve you.”

“I know it well,” I told him. “I want you to do something more for me. I want you to get up from this sick-bed and come back to Court.”

He shook his head. “I shall never rise from this bed, Your Majesty.”

“You are too young to die.”

“I have grown old in your service.”

“Come, Thomas Radcliffe, we both grow old. But I am not so old yet that I can dispense with your services.”

“I have long felt death close to me, Your Majesty,” he said, “and my greatest regret in leaving this life is that I may no longer serve you. I shall leave the Court to others…”

I shook my head. He looked so mournful that I knew he was thinking of Leicester who he thought had an evil influence over me; and yet when I had been incensed by Robert's marriage and had declared my intention of sending him to the Tower, it had been Sussex who had restrained me and pointed out that I could not do so. There had been a chance to take revenge on his enemy then, but he had not done so because it would have been wrong and harmful to me and because he was ever a just man above all.

I wept for him. “I cannot afford to lose my good men,” I said. “I love them dearly. My lord, you have been very dear to me.”

I took a tender farewell of him and said that I should send every day— or come myself—until he was well, for he was constantly in my thoughts.

Hatton was with him at the end. He reported to me what he had said. It was: “I am passing into another world and must leave you. Beware of the gipsy. He will betray you. You know not the beast as I do.”

By the gipsy he meant Robert, who had been given that name by some because of his dark hair and dark flashing eyes.

Poor Sussex! Even in death he could not forget his jealousy of the man I loved beyond them all.

A few days later he died.

I WAS VERY AMUSED to hear that Dorothy Devereux had astounded them all by snapping her fingers at their grandiose plans for her and had run off with John Perrot's son, Thomas. The young pair had fallen in love. It was an unusual story that we had from the vicar of Broxbourne in whose church they had been clandestinely married. He said that two men had asked for the keys to the door of his church, which he had refused. They had then departed, but feeling that there was something unusual in the request, the vicar had gone along to investigate, to find that the door of the church had been forced open and inside a young couple were being married.

“Why,” I said, “this Dorothy Devereux has spirit. I will say that for her. And she has taken Tom Perrot and saved herself from her stepfather's proposed match with the heir of Scotland!”

I laughed with my women. Sir John Perrot, father of the bridegroom, was said to be a very close relation of mine. Whether he was or not remains a mystery, but I had to admit that I never saw a man who looked more like my father. Sir John was reputed to be his illegitimate son by Mary Berkley, who married a certain Thomas Perrot. Sir John was an enormous man; his build was exactly that of my father; he had a somewhat quarrelsome nature and was constantly involved in brawls. My father had encouraged him, and my half-brother Edward had made him a knight and helped him through financial troubles. And it was the son of this man whom Dorothy had married.

I could imagine Lettice's wrath for I was certain she was the one who had goaded Robert to his outrageous plans.

That was a year of death.

The first blow was the news that my dear little Frog had passed away. I had always known that he was no commander of men. He was a courtier, simply that. It had been a cruel joke to give this poor little man the name of Hercule—though he had been called Franois later. Not even of medium height, disfigured by the pox; it was as though Nature had regarded him as a joke, a travesty of a man. However education and upbringing had given him social grace but that somehow had made the contrast between manners and appearance more grotesque.

I had treated him badly, played on his vanity, allowed him to believe that I had thought him attractive… all in the name of politics… and my own desire to be admired, of course.

And now the little man had died—not in battle, but in his bed. He had lived a life of debauchery, I knew, which somehow seemed more to be deplored because he was so ugly and could only have found partners to share in his frolics because of his wealth and royalty.

I went into mourning for him and wept a little. Perhaps some of my men thought I was acting but I did feel a genuine grief.

Then there occurred another death—one which was to shatter the whole continent of Europe. William of Orange was murdered.

This was a great blow to the Protestant world. He was one of their most respected leaders—an upright, noble gentleman who had given his life to the protection of the weak against the strong. In his youth he had been a Catholic and had discovered through Henri Deux of France, that France and Spain were formulating a plot to destroy the Protestants in the two countries. The massacre which had taken place on the eve of St Bartholomew's Day had been only a step toward this. When William heard that the Duke of Alva was raising an army to come against Holland and that his object was to exterminate what he called heretics and set up the Inquisition in that country, he became a Protestant and steeled himself for the almost impossible task of fighting Philip of Spain. He was determined to sacrifice everything he had— including his life—to preserve the welfare and liberty of his people.

But there was no holding back the Spaniards and Alva arrived with ten thousand troops and established what he called The Council of Troubles and which the Netherlanders called The Council of Butchers. In a short time he had put twenty thousand innocent townsfolk to death.

William escaped to Germany where he attempted to build up an army, while his people were submitted to a tyrannous Spanish rule.

It had been believed that William could never regain his land. The Spaniards were there in strength; the bloody Inquisition was established and the most cruel deaths were being suffered by people who had committed no fault beyond—if that can be called a fault, which I called a virtue—refusing to accept the Catholic Faith.

Then a great event occurred—one of which the Dutch were justly proud. Many Dutchmen having been driven from their land had taken to the sea and formed themselves into a company of pirates who robbed the Spanish ships coming into Holland. They were known as the Beggars of the Sea. They captured the town of Briel which they fortified and declared they were holding for “Father William.”

It was a turning point because it showed the Spaniards that they had not won the complete victory which they believed they had, and it enabled William to return to Holland. William the Silent—as they called him, for he was a man of few words—was in control again, proclaimed ruler of the land.

They were a valiant people, those Dutch, and they were heartened by the Huguenots of France who, disgusted by the massacre of St Bartholomew's Eve, came to Holland to help in the fight. William was seeking allies. That was when he had turned his eyes to us.

I wanted to help him; but I had a great aversion to involving my subjects in wars—however righteous. It was for this reason that I had been so pleased to send Anjou to Holland. It was not only to be rid of him but to assist a worthy cause.

Philip must have hated William the Silent, the man whose name was a magic talisman among his followers. He was a perfect leader; his people were devoted to him; he shone with his desire to make any sacrifices which would bring about their liberty.

Philip knew such men were dangerous, and desperately he wanted him out of the way. There had been many attempts on William's life—none of which had come to anything. His people believed that God preserved him to be their savior.

And so it seemed until that dismal day in July of the year 1584 when, in his city of Delft, he was shot dead by a certain Balthasar Gerrards. The irony was that Gerrards had begged from William himself, asking for alms for a poor Calvinist, and William had responded to his appeal. With the money his ruler had given him Gerrards bought a pistol and shot the great man dead.

Gerrards was immediately arrested and tortured. He confessed that he was Philip's spy and was executed most barbarously for the Dutch knew that he had dealt them the most cruel blow possible, and they wanted revenge. But revenge could not bring back William the Silent.

When we heard the news Burghley immediately called a meeting of the Council.

The position was grave, he said. The death of William meant that the responsibility for saving the Dutch from Spain now rested with England.

I was loath to accept this. I could see a long-drawn-out war fought on Dutch soil if it was true—I would never allow it to be the soil of England. I could see men dying and money wasted … and little success with it. If William had not been able to drive out the Spaniards, how could we?

“He was very successful in the circumstances,” said Burghley. “If he had had more resources, who knew what he might have done?”

We had equipped Anjou to fight the Spaniards, I pointed out, and the Dutch owed us money which they had not repaid. They were hardworking people and were not poor. It was merely that the state of the country made it difficult for the government to impose taxes.

They agreed that what I had said was true but pointed out to me the danger of Spain's taking over complete control of the Netherlands, which would bring them uncomfortably near to us. We must never forget that the most dangerous enemy we had was Philip of Spain.

Could we not work out something in conjunction with the French? They would not want to see Spain victorious.

Our relations with them were not very friendly. They were still smarting from the humiliation suffered by the Duc d'Anjou and were probably realizing now that I had never intended to marry him and had merely dallied to gain more time to see what happened in the Netherlands.

There would be new uneasiness in France because the scene had changed there with the death of Anjou. Henri Trois had no son and the nearest heir was Henri of Navarre, himself a Huguenot.

I was disturbed when I heard that in desperation Holland had offered the sovereignty of the Netherlands to Henri Trois provided he would give them military help. This threw us into a panic for the idea of a Frenchdominated Netherlands was almost as alarming as a Spanish one. However Henri declined, for which we were grateful, but the situation was fraught with danger.

I was glad some of my counselors agreed that it would be unwise to meddle. Walsingham was one of them. We could not hope to succeed, he said; and our best plan was to make sure that our own country was well defended. We should push ahead with more rapid building of ships and make England impregnable.

I agreed wholeheartedly with this. Henri Trois was as unhealthy as his brother, I pointed out. They were a diseased race, those Valois. If he were to die everything would change in France, for Huguenot Henri of Navarre would come to the throne.

Walsingham's men brought alarming news. The Duc de Guise had formed an alliance with Philip of Spain. It was their avowed purpose that, when Henri Trois died, they would prevent Henri of Navarre from taking the throne and would purge France of its Huguenots so forcefully that in a short time they would have an all-Catholic country. They would extend their methods until the whole of Europe became Catholic.

Faced with such a problem, I did what I always did. I prevaricated.

I needed time, I said, to work out what was the best thing to be done.

THAT YEAR THERE was yet another death. Poor Robert, he was very sad. He had been so proud of the boy. I was sorry I had castigated him so sharply for trying to make an alliance for the child with Arabella Stuart.

I always made excuses for Robert. After all, I asked myself, what father worthy of the name would not want the best for his child?

He came to me and told me that he had received news of his son's illness and asked leave to retire from Court. I gave it at once and sent him off, saying that I would pray for the swift recovery of the little boy.

I believe they were both at young Robert's bedside when he died. I even felt a little sorry for Lettice. She was, after all, a mother. But she had other children—four of them; whereas poor Robert had only one—unless one could count Douglass Sheffield's boy.

My thoughts were with him during that time, and it occurred to me that in spite of all his scheming he had failed to get what he wanted most. He had wanted to share my crown and I had denied him that, and the older we grew the more I realized my wisdom in doing so. He had tried to make grand marriages for his son and stepdaughter and I had foiled him in that, too. But I had made him the most powerful man in the country, and the richest. Not that he would ever feel himself to be rich! Whatever Robert had, he would spend more. Robert loved extravagances and it must cost him all he had—and more—to run those magnificent places of his where everything had to be of the best.

He was more full of faults than any man I knew.

But I wept for him now.

The little one was buried in the Beauchamp Chapel at Warwick.

I sent for Robert and when he came to me I dismissed all the others.

“I think you might want to share your grief with me alone,” I said, at which he sat on a stool at my feet and leaning his head against my knees wept silently. I caressed his curling hair and wept with him.

I said: “Talk if you wish, Robin, but if you would rather remain silent, do so.”

But he wanted to talk. He told me of the mental perfections of his son; physically he had always been frail. It surprised me that Robert with his magnificent physique could produce a fragile child—but nature is like that. He told me of the anxiety he had suffered because the little fellow had been subject to fits and when they were over he had been very weak indeed.

“Robert, we must bear our trials,” I said. “You have much to be thankful for. This is a cruel tragedy but it will grow less as time passes.”

He thanked me for my sympathy, which he said was the best thing in the world to him, and I replied that he should know by now that I would always stand by him when life used him ill.

He nodded and kissed my hand and there was great accord between us. We knew again that our love for each other was a very precious thing and that it would last until one of us died and left the other desolate.

“His mother is prostrate with grief,” he said.

“It is natural that a mother should be,” I answered.

“She is so unhappy at your anger with her. If you could allow her to come to Court, it would help to cheer her.”

My softness dropped from me.

“No,” I said coldly and firmly. “There is no place for that woman at my Court.”

He was silent and so was I. The intimacy was over. He had ruined it by introducing a snake into our Eden.

BURGHLEY BROUGHT ME the pamphlet which he thought I ought to see.

I had had a pleasant evening, although it had been arranged to mourn and honor our lost friends, the Duc d'Anjou and William of Orange. I had dressed with the utmost care in black velvet decorated with silver thread and pearls. Over this I wore a shawl of silver mesh; it was as fine as a spider's web and had meant many hours of work by my good needlewomen to bring it to its perfection. My ruff was twinkling with gold and silver stars. I knew that I was looking my best.

I was still pondering as to what my action should be regarding the Netherlands problem. There were so many varying opinions in the Council and Burghley's view was that the Dutch, having failed to get Henri Trois to accept their crown in return for his aid, might offer it to me.

I was thinking of the magnitude of this when Burghley came to me and asked if I had seen the scurrilous pamphlet which was being circulated throughout the Court.

I said I had not and to what did it refer?

He said that it was entitled The Copye of a Letter wryten by a Master of Arts at Cambridge and was concerned with the misdeeds of a certain nobleman.

“Leicester?” I asked.

Burghley nodded.

“There are always those who will malign Leicester,” I said. “He has aroused so much envy. Who is making mischief now?”

“The author of the pamphlet is a little elusive, but it is said to be written by a Jesuit priest named Robert Parson.”

“I have heard his name. He is one of those who burn to restore the Catholic faith in England, I believe, and is ready to do so by any means however foul… like most of his brethren. England would be a happier place without his kind. Well, where is this pamphlet?”

“If Your Majesty wishes to see it I will fetch it, but I warn you it does not make pleasant reading.”

“By which I infer I am mentioned in it.”

He was silent.

“Bring it to me at once,” I said.

And so it came into my hands, the most wicked and scurrilous document I ever beheld. It was so absurd that I felt it must be worthless. On the other hand there were parts of it which might have had their roots in truth. Jesuit Parson had not been clever enough; if he had been content with recording the more plausible incidents he might have succeeded in his purpose, which was to destroy not only Leicester's reputation but mine as well. But as is often the case with such fanatical fury, he had gone too far.

Venom leaped out from those pages. Heaven knew, Robert's record was not so pure that it needed such ferocious blackening. I was faintly amused in spite of my anger—and yes, alarmed—to see how Parson had betrayed his passionate envy. Not very clever for a man who claimed to have dedicated himself to God.

He referred to Robert as The Bear and as soon as I read the opening sentences I was prepared for what followed.

“You know the Bear's love, which is for his paunch …” It was ridiculous. Robert might indulge somewhat excessively in what is called good living, but he had many greater loves—for power, for glory, for possessions; and he had loved his dead son and Lettice—and I was sure myself.

“He is noble in only two descents and both of them stained with the block…”

That was so, but was it Robert's fault that his grandfather had died to placate the people who had blamed him for the taxes imposed by my grandfather? His father had come to the block through ambition, but was Robert to blame for that? My own mother had died on the block and so had many innocent people. The Jesuit was a fool.

“He was fleshed in conspiracy against the royal blood of King Henry's children in his tender years,” he continued.

It was true that he was at Court when a child, but he had stood for me as long as I had known him and had sold his lands in case I should need money to hold my throne.

I was reluctant to read on because I knew that this man Parson would be no respecter of royalty. I was right. After an account of how Leicester had advanced his own family, he turned to his relationship with me. All the gossip, all the slander had been revived. The children who had been killed at birth or smuggled into secrecy…it was all there. I felt myself growing more and more enraged as I read.

He was a murderer, wrote Parson, not only of his wife, who stood in his way, but of others. He began with the death of Amy Robsart whom, he insisted, Leicester had ordered his servants to dispose of that he might be free to marry the Queen.

Previously he had said that Leicester exerted an evil spell over me which forced me to submit to his lusts. Surely all reasonable people would ask why, since he had murdered Amy in order to marry me, he did not use that sorcery to bring about the marriage.

The death of Lord Sheffield was described in detail. He had been murdered at Leicester's command because he had threatened to divorce his wife naming Leicester as her lover. So an artificial catarrh had stopped his breath. Lord Essex had been killed through a clever Italian recipe after he had learned that Lettice was with child by Leicester. The child was afterward destroyed. Lady Sheffield was being poisoned, and the evidence was that her nails were dropping off and her hair falling out, when her life was saved by her marriage to Sir Edward Stafford. And all knew that there had been an inquiry about that as there had been about the death of Amy Robsart. But Leicester's minions were afraid of him and they saw to it that the truth was not brought out into the open.

What a fool the Jesuit was! These crimes he had laid at Robert's door, while they could not be substantiated had their roots in fact—distorted fact maybe, but there was some reason for plausibility. But he was not content with that. Endowing me with children was absurd, as my movements were followed all the time and it would not have been possible for me to become pregnant without many being aware of it. So that made a nonsense of that particular scandal.

He had to invent absurd crimes and one of the most foolish concerned the death of the Cardinal de Chatillon. It was well known that Catherine de' Medici had wanted him out of the way and that she was a skillful poisoner. Why lay his death at Robert's door? There was no reasoning behind it. Parson's feeble answer was that the Cardinal had threatened to reveal how Leicester had obstructed my marriage with the Duc d'Anjou so the earl's spy poisoners had been sent to dispatch him.

I was horrified and fascinated. Not only was this a libel against Robert but many others as well. Myself for one. If that Jesuit was caught, this was going to cost him dear. John Dee, the astrologer, was implicated, so was Dr Julio, Robert's favorite physician, who, it was said, had brought the art of poisoning with him from Italy. He was named as one of those who had assisted Robert in bringing about the deaths of his victims.

According to Father Parson, Robert was well versed in the black arts, was lustful, greedy, a power-seeking murderer. The devil himself could not have been more evil.

As I read I was inclined to laugh at the absurdities. On the other hand I could see how dangerous this could be in the hands of my enemies. Robert and I were too close for me not to be linked with his villainies.

Old scandals would be revived. People would remember how Amy Robsart died. If I had married Robert, that would have been the end of my reign for the people would have turned against me in the same way that they had turned against Mary Stuart when she married Bothwell, Darnley's murderer. Oh, what a fool she had been! I wondered if she thought as often of me as I did of her. It was inevitable, I supposed, for constantly she was trying to escape from the prisons into which I put her.

Did she ever think how similar our lives had been at that point when I had been so attracted by Robert, and the wife who stood in our way had died? I had seen that as the end of all possibilities for marriage with Robert—only by not marrying him could I completely exonerate myself. For if I refused to marry him when he was free, how could I have connived at the removal of his wife? How different Mary had been. She had married Bothwell almost before Darnley was cold. Foolish, headstrong Mary. And wise Elizabeth.

Now I needed all my wisdom to decide what was to be done about this libelous pamphlet. Ridicule was always a good weapon—perhaps the best if it could be effectively used.

All the same I could not have that pamphlet circulating freely through the country.

I made an Order of Council to forbid the circulation of what had come to be known as Father Parson's Green Coat or Leicester's Commonwealth, and I gave my assurances that to my knowledge the contents of this scurrilous document were false.

Young Philip Sidney—he was now Sir Philip for I had bestowed a knighthood on him—composed a defense of his uncle very beautifully and movingly written in which he said that he was on his father's side of ancient, well-esteemed and well-matched gentry, but his chief honor was to be a Dudley. Dear Philip Sidney! I was always fond of him, partly because of his devotion to his uncle. He was such a good and clever young man, and surely he could not have been so devoted to one who was unworthy. It did me good to see the affection between him and Robert.

However, nobody wanted to read Philip Sidney's defense of his uncle. It was not lurid like the Commonwealth and people are much more interested in evil than in righteousness.

Even my order was not fully carried out. There would always be those who were ready to earn money by smuggling forbidden literature into the country. This was done and I imagined there was hardly a man or woman in the kingdom who did not know of Father Parson's Green Coat.

It was disconcerting too that it should be published abroad. Immediately there was a French edition—La Vie Abominable, Ruses, Meurtres etc de my Lord de Leicester. And how unfortunate it was that my English Ambassador should happen to be Sir Edward Stafford who had married Douglass Sheffield.

He was in a dilemma. He wrote to Walsingham and Burghley, calling attention to the translation, asking whether he could allow such a document, which was an insult to his Queen and one of her leading ministers, to go unnoticed; on the other hand to call attention to it was distressing to his wife who was mentioned in it. She had been prostrate with melancholy when the first edition had appeared, and now this one was sending her “out of her head” and he feared she was in danger of death.

When these letters were brought to me I could sympathize with poor Douglass Sheffield. I myself was slandered in the document and like Douglass could be said to be accused of complicity in murder. I was strong though, and she, poor soul, was a weakling. How she must regret the day she set eyes on Robert Dudley and allowed her feelings for him to get the better of virtue.

But what were we to do? That was the question.

Burghley said he thought that Stafford in his letter had provided the answer: The matter, he said, should be left alone, as a thing we make no account of rather than to speak against it, to make think “that a galled horse when he is touched will wince”.

I nodded.

“Yes,” I said, “Stafford is right. If we ignore this it seems we treat it with the indifference it deserves. To raise our voices in protest and anger would appear that we have taken this seriously and it might seem that we have something to hide.”

“Let us treat it as the ramblings of a fanatic.”

So it was.

But that was not the end of Father Parson's Green Coat. It was to be subversively printed and reprinted and it appeared throughout the kingdom for years to come. But Robert was strong enough to live down his reputation; and perhaps he was even more feared than ever, and people were more inclined to think seriously before offending him.

Robert snapped his fingers at the scandal and went on pursuing his brilliant career.

THE SITUATION IN the Netherlands was coming toward a climax. Burghley had hinted that we should have to make a painful decision soon.

As had been predicted, the sovereignty of the Netherlands had been offered to me and the Dutch delegates came to England imploring my help. They thought the offer of the crown would decide me; they did not understand that I was committed to peace and that my whole being cried out against war. Had it not been for the eternal menace of Spain I would not for a moment have considered interfering. But I knew my ministers were right when they said we could not allow Spain to have complete control over a country so near to our shores.

So it was decided that we would assist the Dutch with money and yes… with men; and we must be paid for this to the last farthing when the war was over. Until that happy event we must have solid pledges in the shape of a town in each province.

We agreed to send four hundred horse, four thousand foot and seven hundred garrison troops. Later we added to that number for it was clear that more would be needed; and I promised a further six hundred cavalry and a thousand foot.

Because I wanted to please Robert and Burghley I made Philip Sidney governor of Flushing and Burghley's eldest son, Thomas Cecil, that of Brill.

They were always seeking honors for those whom they were trying to bring to my notice. Even Burghley, who was not a power-seeker, was guilty of this, and I fancied he kept back those brilliant Bacon boys for fear they should outstrip his own son—not Thomas, the elder, but his little hunchbacked Robert who had already been brought to my notice and whom I recognized as a clever little fellow—probably doubly so because his disability had made him want to shine through his brains since he could not through his personal appearance.

The great decision was, who should command the expedition? I knew Robert wanted to, but I hesitated to give it to him only because I hated to have him leave Court, and the possibility of his being in danger terrified me.

But the general opinion was that the command should go to him.

Father Parson's Green Coat was still very much in people's minds and it would be well for him to absent himself for a while.

Both Burghley and Walsingham remarked that he was a great figure in England and the fact that we sent him would make people understand how important the matter was to us; moreover, Robert, who wanted the glory of the expedition, had the means to use a great deal of his own money in promoting himself; and although he was not a general himself, he would have able commanders with him.

So it was decided that Robert should go to the Netherlands.

I SUMMONED HIM to Court and kept him with me before he left. There was so much business to discuss, I said. Even the night before he set out I made sure that he did not return to Leicester House where no doubt Lettice was waiting to say a fond farewell.

So I was with Robert till the time he set off for Harwich where a fleet of fifty sail was waiting to take him on the first stage of his journey.

I heard of the wonderful reception he was given on his arrival at Rotterdam, where the banks were lined with men holding cressets high in the air, and the cheers, ran the report, were deafening.

Poor people, they must have been very frightened; and who could wonder with those fanatical Spaniards noted for their cruelty ready to subdue them. And how Robert must have loved such a welcome! In his heart he had always wanted to be a king.

I felt quite ill after he had gone. I should not have allowed it. What if he should be killed in battle? Of course, he had looked so splendid, sitting at the head of his cavalcade, and when I had voiced my fears, he had said, with characteristic charm, that he wished he had a thousand lives that he might place them at my service.

But I worried and that brought on my headaches and I wished fervently that we had never become involved in the Netherlands controversy. I would never have done so but for my fear of the Spaniards who were growing more and more powerful every day. I thanked God for our fine seamen like Sir Francis Drake who robbed and pillaged their ships whenever possible. I wished there were more like him and we could drive the Spaniards off the seas. Why could not they live in peace in their country and leave me to mine? Why did they have to have this fanatical desire to impose their power and their religion on those who did not want it?

But so it was, and because of this, fine men like Robert Dudley had to go to war.

My feelings took a sharp turn when the news was brought to me that almost immediately after his arrival Robert, regarded as the savior of the Netherlands, was offered the Governor-Generalship of the United Provinces—the honor of sovereignty which first Henri Trois had refused and then I had. And Robert had dared accept without consulting me! My fury drove away my anxiety. Why had I worried about Robert? He had not gone there to fight but to make himself a king!

I sent for Thomas Heneage. I cried: “What think you of this news? My lord Leicester has taken the honor which I refused. I suppose he is now setting himself up as King of the Netherlands.”

Heneage was secretly pleased, of course, as they all were when I was angry with Robert, yet he was afraid to condemn him for they knew I was capable of turning on them if they attacked him.

“I shall write to him at once,” I said, “and put a stop to all this nonsense. You shall take my letter to him and let him know the full weight of my displeasure.”

Then I sat down and wrote to him in the heat of my anger:

“We could never have imagined had we not seen it fall out in experience, that a man raised up by ourself, and extraordinarily favored by us above any subject of this land, would have, in so contemptible a sort, broken our commandment in a cause which so greatly touches our honor…

“Our express pleasure and commandment is that, all delays and excuses laid apart, do you presently, upon the duty of your allegiance, obey and fulfill whatsoever the bearer shall direct you to do in our name: whereof fail you not or you will answer the contrary at your uttermost peril…”

Oh, I would have him humiliated! He had accepted the honor. Now he could publicly renounce it. I would have the whole of the Netherlands know that he was my servant and no one should forget it.

Such was my rage against Robert. But I suppose those about me, who knew me well, were aware that it would quickly subside and I would soon be feeling anxious for his dignity as well as his health.

Burghley advised caution. Let us discuss the matter. Let us not make hasty decisions.

I was already beginning to waver. I could imagine his joy when he accepted the great honor. Dear Robert, he would have done so with such charm and dignity. I wished I had been there to see him. Then I remembered what he had done. He had taken matters into his own hands. Moreover, how could he be Governor General of the United Provinces? His place was not in the Netherlands but in England at my side.

Then I heard news which infuriated me even more. Lettice was preparing to join him and she was proceeding in the state of a queen! She was assembling her wardrobe and in the city of London the merchants were busily making their way to Leicester House taking the finest materials for her approval—suitable for the wife of a man who was one step from a throne. She had ordered several coaches to be built and on these would be the arms of the Netherlands combined with those of Leicester.

Madam Lettice could only travel in the style of a queen!

I really gave vent to my feelings then. I swore by God that Madam Lettice was going to unpack her fine possessions with all speed. There was to be no triumphant royal trip for her.

“She is not going to join her King in the Netherlands,” I said grimly. “She might join him in the Tower, for he has lost his crown and will soon be returning to England in disgrace.”

So Lettice was commanded to stop her preparations. She could send the merchants back to their shops with their splendid materials; she could unpack her jewels. It was going to be very different from what she had imagined.

Heneage should leave at once for the Netherlands. He should tell Leicester that he must inform his dear subjects that his Queen, without whom he had no power whatsoever, had decided that he had acted rashly, foolishly and against her wishes in accepting what she would not allow him to take. And he must hand it back forthwith.

I had been getting over my anger with Robert but the thought of Lettice preparing to make a royal procession had sent it flaring up again.

Burghley was for keeping Heneage back for a while; so was Heneage himself. I know Burghley would have liked to see Robert humiliated, but he never allowed personal feelings to interfere with politics. That was what made him my most valuable servant.

He now pointed out the danger of publicly humiliating the man I had sent as my representative. Certainly Leicester must give up the GovernorGeneralship; this country could not take on such a responsibility; but he must be allowed to do so in a manner which would create the least fuss. Some excuse must be found. Leicester must be extricated from a position in which a momentary aberration on his part had placed him. It should be widely understood that England had no wish to take on the responsibility of the Netherlands. It was a different matter to give them military aid. As it was, we were not at war with Spain—although we were in fact fighting in the Netherlands. The position was delicate. This action of Leicester's had exacerbated it to some extent; but we must not make it more difficult.

I saw the point of this and of course I would never have hurt Robert with a public humiliation. It would be enough to berate him in private.

WHAT A DISASTER that campaign was! I should never have allowed myself to be persuaded to go to war—for that was what it was. Hadn't I always known that no one profited from war! It was too costly in lives and property; and the idea of wasting money on ammunition when it could be put to better use infuriated me.

Robert was not really a soldier; he was a courtier. Of course he reveled in the spectacles, all the feasting and adulation. But the Dutch did not want him there for that. They wanted the Spaniards driven out of their land.

I had agreed that Robert should continue in his office until some plan could be made to qualify his title. Perhaps my great desire after my first flush of anger, was to let all know that there had been no collusion on my part. My feelings for Robert were universally known and there would most certainly be suspicions that I had maneuvered this great honor for him. I had made it very clear that I had not, and now I was ready to allow the Council to find some way out of it.

Robert was not meant for such a task. We should never have sent him. He despised the Dutch for their homely manners and referred to them in their hearing as churls and tinkers. His great desire now was to come home.

Moreover, as I have said, he was not a soldier and was no true match for the Spaniards. It is true he relieved the town of Grave and then seemed to be of the opinion that this decided the entire campaign and he could rest from fighting. But it was not long before Parma had recaptured Grave and Robert was quarreling with his captains, blaming everyone for failure except himself.

I could imagine how he missed Court.

Then something very sad took place. Philip Sidney had accompanied his uncle to the Netherlands to take up his command at Flushing. I could imagine Robert's discussions with Sidney about my annoyance over the Governor-Generalship; and young Philip would of course believe that his uncle could do no wrong. What a beautiful relationship there was between those two! Now I wished more than ever that I had never embarked on this adventure; it was bringing misery to everyone. If I had my way I would have entrenched myself in England—building my ships, fortifying my land for the day when the Spaniards attempted to conquer us. Burghley was sure that they would come, and I was beginning to believe that he was right.

Oh yes, that would have been better than this futile fighting abroad.

Philip Sidney must have been feeling very sad because he had recently lost both his father and mother. Their deaths had saddened me, particularly that of Mary Sidney whose devotion I would always remember. How I hated people to die! It was bad enough when they died in their beds but when they were hastened prematurely to their graves indulging in stupid warfare it was almost unendurable.

It happened at Zutphen. Philip had left his tent early in the morning and unhappily for him had met Sir William Pelham who had forgotten to put on his leg armor. Philip foolishly offered his and declared that he did not need that sort of equipment. How wrong the foolish boy was! During the ensuing battle he was wounded in the left thigh.

There was a saintliness about Philip Sidney—in spite of the fact that he had written those love poems to Penelope Rich, another man's wife. She was the she-wolf's cub so perhaps she had some special powers, inherited from her mother, to turn men to her.

Philip Sidney had certainly been devoted to Penelope in spite of his having a good wife in Walsingham's girl, Frances.

The story was that parched with thirst he called for a drink and as he was about to take it he saw a dying man looking longingly at the water. He was reputed to have said: “Take it. Thy need is greater than mine.”

People who die young are always regarded as saints. Too good for this life! people say. So it was inevitable that they should have said that of Philip Sidney.

Robert had him taken to his barge and he was carried down the river to Arnheim. Frances Walsingham—who was such a good wife to Philip and did not deserve to endure the devotion he showed to Penelope Rich, spiritual though it was supposed to be—went out to nurse him, although she was pregnant.

But Philip Sidney died, in spite of all the care that was lavished on him.

I was sure Robert would be deeply grieved.

Everything had gone wrong for him since the day he had left with his magnificent equipage for the Netherlands.

He should never have gone. I should never have been inveigled into supporting the Dutch. I should have obeyed my own instincts which were for peace.

I hated war more than ever. My suspicions that there was no profit in it were confirmed. But Spain! It was always Spain. But what we were doing in the Netherlands would not deter Spain.

In the midst of all this that which came to be known as the Babington Plot emerged. And Mary Stuart became an even greater preoccupation than the Netherlands.