Queen Of This Realm

The Traitor

RALEIGH WAS STILL IN THE TOWER AND I HAD NO DESIRE to release him. I was still very annoyed with him and he must be an example to them all. Essex was delighted. He had erred in the same way yet had not been treated so harshly and was now in higher favor than he had ever been. I was sure that rankled very much with Raleigh.

Robert Cecil did ask me if I thought he had been punished enough.

“It was not exactly a political sin, Your Majesty,” he went on.

“I will not have immorality in my Court, little man,” I said, “and that is an end of the matter.”

Of course Raleigh had stood with the Cecils against Essex. He was an able man and I believed that they missed him. That might be but I was not in the mood to release him, though I heard rumors that he was pining away in the Tower.

“Because he misses his playmate Bessie Throckmorton?” I asked.

“He says it is because he is denied Your Majesty's presence.”

“Fine words. Raleigh was always good at them.”

He clearly had his friends who were anxious to help and they brought these accounts to me.

I had passed along the river in my barge, I was told, and through his barred window Raleigh had caught sight of me. He had been overcome with frustration. He said he knew how Tantalus had felt, and he had made a futile attempt to dash out of his prison and escape. He had, of course, been caught by his guards.

“They will doubtless keep a closer guard on him in future,” was my comment.

It was not long after that when Robert Cecil mentioned that he had received a letter from Raleigh. “He mentions Your Majesty,” said Cecil.

“Is that so?” I asked with indifference.

“In fact, Your Majesty,” was the answer, “he talks and writes of nothing else.”

“Perhaps he is a little more thoughtful of my wishes in prison than he was in prosperity.”

“He is a man, Your Majesty,” persisted Cecil,” and men fall into these temptations.”

Of course he was right. I had understood in the case of Robert and Essex. What infuriated me was that these men were telling me that they lived only to serve me while they behaved shamefully in corners with my voluptuous maids of honor.

Seeing me softening a little Cecil said: “I should like permission to show you his letter, Your Majesty.”

I held out my hand.

“How can I live alone in prison while she is afar off—I, who was wont to behold her, riding like Alexander, hunting like Diana, walking like Venus—the gentle wind blowing her fair hair about her pure cheeks, like a nymph. Sometimes sitting in the shade like a goddess, sometimes playing on the lute like Orpheus. But once amiss, hath bereaved me of all. All those times are past, the loves, the sighs, the sorrows, the desires, can they not weigh down one frail misfortune?”

I liked what I read. Raleigh had always had a fluent pen and flowery words at his disposal. I knew of course that the letter had been written for my eyes to see. He had known his good friend Cecil was hoping to get him released from the Tower in order to help to put a stop to Essex's increasing rise to fortune. Raleigh had been his only serious rival. I saw through it all. But I did like the tone of the letter, and to know how much he was longing to come back to Court.

I handed the letter back to Cecil in silence.

“Would Your Majesty consider …” he began timidly.

“Yes, yes,” I said. “I promise nothing, but I will consider.”

But I let two months pass before I gave the order for his release. Even then I would not receive him at Court.

I heard that he had married Bess Throckmorton. “And about time too,” I said.

They went down to Sherborne but I knew that he was longing to come back to Court, and I supposed I would allow him to…in due course.

ESSEX WAS CONSTANTLY worrying me to receive his mother at Court. I was set against it. I might in time forgive Frances Walsingham and Bessie Throckmorton, but one I would never forgive was Lettice Knollys. Seeing her would be too painful for me. I knew that she was very beautiful… even now; she had a young husband whom she had married as soon as possible after Robert's death, and there had been unpleasant rumors about her relationship with Christopher Blount before she married him. To me she would always be the she-wolf.

But she was Essex's mother. That always seemed ironical to me. With the two men whom I had most deeply loved, Lettice had been on the most intimate terms—the wife of one; the mother of the other. I could forgive her for the latter, but never for the former. Robert would always be supreme in my life and much of the savor of it had gone with his death; and she had been his wife. He had married her in spite of the fact that he knew how I would feel about the marriage. He could have ruined his career at Court and that he had done for her sake. Perhaps he had been sure of my unswerving love for him. But he had taken a mighty risk… and for her… that worthless she-wolf, who, some said, had been trifling with Blount while Robert was yet alive—and even worse that she had hastened Robert's end.

Receive that she-wolf! Give her the satisfaction of coming to Court! At least I had been able to deny her that.

She had tried to live like a queen. She had tried to rival me… not only with him, but in outward show. Oh, the impudence of that woman! Receive her at Court! No, I said firmly. But Essex never knew when to stop.

I would silence him and he would be sullen. Sometimes he dared stay away from Court, pretending to be sick. I believed he used that method as Robert used it, and as I myself had in the days of danger. But I was never sure—as I had not been with Robert—and I would be very upset wondering if he really was ill.

One day, during one of these bouts of illness—he really did look rather pale lying in his bed—he told me that he was upset about his mother who was most unhappy because I had shut her out.

He looked so mournful that I wanted to please him so I said: “I shall be passing from my chamber to the Presence room the day after tomorrow. I shall have to see those who are in the Privy Gallery.”

“Dearest Majesty.” His smile was brilliant and I suffered a twinge of jealousy. He loved his mother. There was no doubt of that.

“And you will speak to her? Oh, if you did, that would mean so much. She would be able to come to Court again.”

I said: “I have to speak to one or two as I pass through, you know.”

He kissed my hand rapturously.

After I had left him, I scolded myself. See Lettice Knollys! I hated the woman. Every time I thought of her I saw her and Robert together. How much worse it would be actually to see her!

He had wrung that promise from me. Why had I given it? Because he looked so wan. Because I had wanted to please him. What had I said? I had not really promised that I would speak to her. I had merely stated that I would be passing through the gallery, which I often did. Some people were presented to me then…or caught my eye. Then naturally I would speak to them. But I had made no promise that I would speak to her.

The day came. I was in my chamber and my women were assisting at my dressing ceremony. All the time I was thinking: She will be out there. What will she be wearing? Something becoming. She had always known what suited her and she could look beautiful in the simplest of gowns. She would look young still. She was younger than I… but even she would be getting old.

Why should I see her?

“Is there a crowd in the gallery?” I asked.

One of my ladies replied that the usual crowd was gathered there.

I yawned. It was time for me to go. In a few moments I would be face to face with my enemy.

I had been forced to this. What right had Essex? I must not be so indulgent toward him. He gave himself airs. He had too high an opinion of his importance! He should be taught a few lessons.

“I do not think I will go to the Presence Chamber today,” I said. “One of you must inform the people waiting in the gallery that I shall not be passing through today.”

They were all surprised but they knew better than to hesitate.

My orders were carried out and the people in the Privy Gallery—Lettice Knollys among them—dispersed.

I laughed aloud. That would show Lettice that her son did not command me absolutely. And perhaps it would show her very clearly that I had no wish to see her again.

WHEN ESSEX HEARD what had happened he came storming to Court. He certainly looked pale and drawn, but he had arisen from his sick-bed to register his anger.

He really was a very rash young man and I marveled at myself for allowing him to act as he did. He would go too far one day.

He said: “You promised me… and you did not keep your promise.”

“My Lord Essex,” I retorted sharply, “pray remember to whom you are addressing this tirade.”

“I am addressing it to one who has so little heed of me that she will not grant me the smallest favor.”

“You ungrateful wretch! How many favors have you received at my hands?”

“I want this… for my mother. I want you to be gracious to her, to let her come to Court again. I asked you, and you promised me you would speak to her.”

“I said that if I were passing through the gallery I might exchange a word with any who caught my eye, which is my usual practice. But I did not pass through the gallery.”

“You did not because you knew that she was there.”

“Be careful, Essex. And leave me at once. You offend me.”

He strode away muttering that he had no desire to be where he was not wanted. I had given too much to that knave Raleigh, but this small thing he asked was denied him.

Let him go back to his bed. I made excuses for him. He was suffering from a fever. He was overwrought. But he was always overbearing, always rash, and spoke before he had given thought to what he was going to say.

I had news of him. He was very ill, it was said; and my conscience smote me. I went to see him and there was no doubt about his illness. He was not shamming this time. I had a terrible fear that I was going to lose him as I had lost Walsingham, Hatton and my dearest Robert.

I said rashly that I would receive his mother privately.

The effect on him was miraculous. Feverishly he kissed my hands. He said I was the kindest, most beautiful lady in the world and that he loved me as he never could love anyone else. He wished that he could die for me … this very moment. Nothing would give him greater pleasure.

I was touched and told him that the best way in which he could please me was to get well.

Then I began to think of meeting Lettice, and I found I was quite looking forward to the encounter. I wanted to see what the years had done to her. I was over sixty, so she must be in her fifties. Was she eight years younger than I? She had always been an outstandingly beautiful woman and she would know how to preserve her looks, I had no doubt. She seemed to have kept the devotion of that new husband of hers and he was twenty years younger than she was.

I considered what I should wear for the occasion. I wished to look my most regal so that Madame Lettice would not forget for a moment that she was in the presence of the Queen.

I chose a gown of white brocade with a red satin lining in the hanging sleeves which fell back to disclose my hands, and these less than any other part of me showed my age. They were still very white and supple, and I had always thought them my most outstanding beauty; and consequently everything was designed to bring them into prominence. They looked very beautiful adorned with jewels. My dress was ornamented with pearls set in gold filigree and the bodice was slashed with red velvet. My waist, which was as trim as it had been when I was a young girl, was encircled by a jeweled girdle, and my ruff scintillated with diamonds.

Thus I was ready to receive my enemy.

She knelt before me—graceful and still youthful—in blue, and wearing a hat with a curling feather. I saw that her hair was still plentiful and of that attractive color. She probably had some recipe for keeping it so. Trust her to discover the way to stay young. She doubtless had a good apothecary who could provide her with what she needed. And her eyes were large and darkly beautiful.

“You may rise, cousin,” I said.

I stood up and we were close together. I put my hands on her shoulders and gave her a formal kiss. She flushed a little. I thought I caught a hint of triumph in her eyes.

I sat down and indicated a stool. She placed herself on it, gracefully gathering her skirts about her.

“It is long since I have seen you,” I said.

“So long, Your Majesty,” she answered.

“All those years since he died,” I said. It was strange that while she was with me I could only think of Robert. “You have consoled yourself,” I went on, almost angrily.

She bowed her head.

“You are like my aunt, Mary Boleyn. There must be men. Ah well, it is long ago, but sometimes to me it seems like yesterday. How did he die?”

“Peacefully. In his sleep.”

“There were rumors about his death,” I said, looking at her intently.

“There were always rumors about him.”

“That is true. He was different from all others. Such a man. I never knew his like… nor ever shall. I mourn him still… after all these years.”

She nodded in sympathy.

Then she said: “I want to thank Your Majesty for all you have done for my son. I trust he gives you satisfaction.”

“Essex is a charming boy,” I said. “But he is rash. You should impress on him the dangers of that.”

“I know it well, Your Majesty, and it causes me great anxiety.”

“You have a lively brood, Lettice. Methinks they take after their mother. Certainly not after poor Walter Devereux. He was a mild man… not suited to you at all, cousin. But you soon found that out, did you not? Still he gave you some pleasant children before he passed on. That was a tragedy but then… his usefulness was over, was it not?”

I looked at her sharply. Had Robert had a part in Devereux's death? Had she been party to it? She was a fascinating creature. I had to admit it. She had the sort of beauty which lasts as long as life. It was the contours of her face perhaps, perfectly molded, and of course, with youth, that flaming hair and those magnificent eyes she had been irresistible. One could not blame Robert. Perhaps I should have blamed myself. I could have had Robert at any time; but there was one question which would have haunted me all my life. Which was more attractive to Robert—myself or the crown? She had had no crown to offer him; he could lose a great deal by marrying her—yet he had done so.

I said: “I was sorry to hear of your son's death.”

She looked sad and I thought: She does love her children.

She answered: “It was a great sorrow, but he wanted to go with his brother. He adored Robert. They all do.”

“Essex has charm,” I agreed. “He could do well for himself…but he must not be so reckless.” Now I was conspiring with her; I was asking for her help for Essex. It showed how I worried about him—more than was wise and reasonable. I should say, Let him make his mistakes and pay for them. But I really loved that young man. “He speaks too freely,” I went on. “He is so careless and I fear that he could fall into very serious trouble.”

“I know it well,” she answered, falling into the mood. We were cousins again as we had been when she had first come to Court and I had been attracted by her as I always was by beauty, no matter in which sex I found it. And the fact that there was a blood relationship between us had drawn me to her. “Oh Your Majesty,” she went on, “I worry a great deal about him.”

“He thinks much of you,” I told her. “He is at least a devoted son. Warn him. Let him understand that he may go so far because of his charm and my affection for him… but he should watch that he does not take too many rash steps. There may come a time when even I cannot help him.”

She rose then and kneeling, took my hand and kissed it. The face which she lifted to me was distorted a little by her anxiety; and if she became less beautiful in that moment, I liked her the better for it.

I said: “We will do our best for this wayward boy… both of us.”

And for a moment we were close because of our love for him.

The moment passed and I said sharply: “You did not wait long after Leicester's death to take another to your bed.”

“I was lonely, Your Majesty.”

“And you were lonely before his death, eh?”

“He was so much at Court.”

“It was his will,” I reminded her. “I trust you find joy in this new husband.”

“We have been married many years now.”

“Oh yes, I remember. Leicester was scarcely cold when you took young Blount to husband. So you are happy in this third marriage? What a woman you are for marrying!”

“I am contented in my marriage,” she said.

I went on: “And that girl of yours. She is another one to watch. Lady Rich is it…or Mountjoy?”

“Lady Rich,” she said.

“Oh yes, Rich is the husband, Mountjoy the paramour… but I believe she is everywhere with Mountjoy and shares his house.”

She was silent.

“And the other girl … rushing off and marrying Perrot. Yes indeed, Lettice, you have a lively brood.”

“They have made me very happy,” she replied quietly. “It is thus with children. We cannot expect to have the joys of parenthood without the accompanying anxieties.”

There she stood—she had been wife to three men and was the mother of several children—Essex among them. And there was I … in my regal state with no husband or child. This was my life; that was hers. I could feel a fleeting envy, but I knew I would not have bartered my crown for any of her husbands—not even Robert—nor for any of the children—not even Essex.

I was tired of her. She depressed me. I brought the interview to an end.

“Essex persuaded me to receive you,” I said, “and I gave in to him. So, Lettice, we have spoken to each other after all these years.”

I held out my hand. It was the signal for her to take it, kiss it and depart.

ESSEX CAME TO ME glowing with pleasure.

“Your Majesty, my dearest Majesty, you have done this for me. How I adore you! My mother is so happy. It is the one thing she needed for her contentment.”

“I received your mother to please you,” I told him.

“How I thank you! From the bottom of my heart, I thank you.”

All this excitement about receiving his mother! I was irritated. Moreover seeing Lettice again had depressed me considerably. She brought back too many memories of Robert and I had spent a most unhappy night recalling so much of the past, including that never-to-be-forgotten day when I had discovered that he had defied me … I might say abandoned me … to marry her.

The meeting may have gratified Lettice Knollys, but it certainly brought me no joy.

I had made up my mind that never again would I give way to Essex's whims. I would not see Lettice Knollys again. She would never be anything to me but the she-wolf who had spoilt the last years of my life with Robert.

“My mother says it was such a happy interview.”

“I was unaware of that happiness,” I said coldly. He should have realized it was dangerous to go on, but when had Essex ever been wise?

“She is looking forward to her next visit to Court.”

“She may look forward for a long time. She will not have another visit to Court.”

He looked at me in astonishment. “But you have received her! She has come back.”

“My Lord Essex, your mother can only come to Court if I give her permission to do so.”

“But you will, of course.”

“I have decided not to.”

“What?”

Really that young man was heading fast for trouble. He would have to learn to show some restraint.

I said coolly: “I did what you asked me to do. I have received your mother and there is an end to the matter. We have spoken and there is nothing more I have to say to her. And remember this: I have no wish to see her again.”

He stared at me and the color suffused his face. He did not speak, which perhaps was fortunate, for if he had I was sure he would have said something which was unforgivable.

He turned and without asking leave to retire strode from my presence.

BURGHLEY CAME TO talk privately with me. He seemed a little concerned.

Poor Burghley! He was showing his age. His beard was quite white now and his once lithe and upright figure stooping. I always felt moved when I saw him; he had lost his youth and his health in my service and I used to say to myself: God forgive me if I ever forget what I owe this man.

He had had so many troubles and he had been such a good husband and father, too. He was fond of all children and nurtured his own with great care. He had looked after his grandchildren—those of the profligate Earl of Oxford who had married his daughter, a match which Burghley had never ceased to regret. He had cared assiduously for my welfare and had even provided me with his son Robert, my “Little Elf,” so that when my dear old friend passed on there would be another as able—or almost as able—to step into his shoes.

When we were alone together I was always particularly affectionate with him. I wanted him to know how much I appreciated what he had done for me and for the country.

Of course he had put forward his son. What good father would not? He had kept Francis Bacon from office out of fear that he would displace the Elf. He never would. I wanted to make use of Robert Cecil's services because I recognized in him his father's particular qualities. Francis Bacon might be brilliant but that tutorial attitude of his would never have suited me.

It was a pity that Essex was in the opposing camp. I should have liked him to work with Burghley. But that was impossible. There could not have been two people less alike than Essex and either of the Cecils.

So when Burghley came to me I feared before he began to tell me that there was some fresh complaint against Essex.

“Pray sit down, my dear friend,” I said. “I know it tires you to stand.”

Gratefully he did so.

“First,” I said, “tell me this: Have you been taking the possets I recommended?”

“Without fail, Your Majesty.”

“Well, I trust they will do good work. My Spirit must take more care of himself. Why should he not rest more? He has that very able son of his to take over much of the work.”

“It is a great pleasure to me that Your Majesty finds my son satisfactory.”

“A clever little Elf. Yes, he pleases me, Master Cecil, and not only because of his good work. He is your son and that gives him special favor in my eyes.”

Now the pleasantries were over, he came to business, and, as I had feared, it concerned Essex.

“Since the regrettable death of Walsingham we have sadly missed his excellent service,” said Burghley, “but there are those among us who have tried to make sure that there are no secret plots which might put Your Majesty's life in danger…”

“Essex works well in that direction,” I said.

“Ah, Essex, Your Majesty.” He paused and I was full of foreboding. “I have made an alarming discovery and I have come here to tell you expressly of it. Essex is corresponding with the King of Scotland.”

“That is impossible!” I cried.

“Alas, Your Majesty, I have evidence. I had discovered this was going on and have secured some of the correspondence.”

“For what purpose was this?”

Burghley looked at me and lifted his shoulders. “The correspondence started when Essex was trying to restore Davison and wanted the King of Scotland to join in the pleas for him since the trouble was about the execution of the King's mother. From that… the letters have continued.”

“How did you discover this?”

“I planted a spy—one Thomas Fowler—at the Scottish Court. The letters have been copied and sent to me. It seems that the prime mover is Lady Rich. Her husband is with her in this.”

“But she is with Mountjoy now.”

“That is so, Your Majesty, but it seems the one thing Penelope Rich has in common with her husband, is a love of intrigue. They are all working for the aggrandizement of Essex. They have code names: Penelope Rich is Rialta, Lord Rich, Ricardo; Your Majesty is Venus and Essex the Weary Knight.”

“It sounds like madness.”

“Not such madness, Your Majesty. Essex is the Weary Knight because he is weary of his bondage to you. He looks for a change.”

“He can have his change!” I cried. “He can go into exile at once. That is the change he will get.”

“If I may advise…”

“Certainly, my friend.”

“At this time the correspondence with the King of Scotland is not treasonable. It is clear to me that Penelope Rich—who is a schemer if ever there was one—is trying to ingratiate herself with James of Scotland, who some say would be the next in line to this throne. I think that is the reason for this correspondence.”

“So they are waiting for my death, are they?”

“It would seem so.”

“Traitors! Villains! By God's Precious Soul, they should all be in the Tower.”

“They are disloyal to Your Majesty, but I beg you to restrain your anger. I want this correspondence to continue, for who knows when it might break into something of significance. If we let them remain in ignorance of our discovery, they will go on writing to each other, and if we are vigilant we can by this means discover whether they have some ulterior motive and are plotting and hoping for James's help. But we must not betray our knowledge of what is taking place. I am sure this is the way Walsingham would have worked.”

“Oh my dear, dear Moor! How I wish he were with us now.”

“Amen! But Your Majesty, you still have loyal servants here to work for you.”

“My dear Spirit the chief of them.”

“Then I have Your Majesty's permission to keep this matter dark? No indication shall be given to the conspirators—if conspirators they be—that we have made this discovery?”

“Yes, let it be so,” I said.

“I have a letter here which was sent to Essex by Sir Francis Bacon in which he warns him of his treatment of you. I thought it would amuse you and let you know what these young men are thinking.”

“The letter came to you through the same sources, I presume?”

“I have many men who are ever watchful of all that concerns Your Majesty.”

I was in truth faintly amused by Francis Bacon's letter. He was telling Essex how he should treat me. Not too much blatant flattery, he advised; there were times, he wrote, when Essex appeared to be paying fine compliments rather than speaking sincerely. That should be changed. He should not slavishly imitate Hatton or Leicester, but as those two courtiers managed that sort of flattery very well, it would be advisable for Essex to study their methods.

Francis Bacon, I commented, was a young man who thought himself very clever. As for Essex… his behavior hurt me more than anything else.

I helped Burghley to his feet. His joints were very stiff.

I embraced him warmly.

“We are getting old, my friend,” I said. “We notice it … and so do others.”

MY FEELINGS FOR Essex were changing. I could not entirely abandon him, for he still had the power to charm me, and when he was with me, in spite of everything, I was still able to forget his faults. But there were times when I could not escape the thought that he was waiting for me to die. He wanted a new King—young James—and he and his sister were endeavoring to make sure of his favor when the change came.

It was perfidious of him. How could he pretend to love me! And how foolish I was, because I missed Leicester so much, to turn to this cruel young man.

He was philandering with one of my maids of honor, a Mistress Bridges. I pretended not to see what was going on, but it was really quite blatant. I heard that poor Frances was very unhappy on account of his infidelities. It had been a very sad day for her when she had married Essex.

He was his mother all over again. What could one expect from the cubs of the she-wolf!

I dismissed Mistress Bridges from Court for a few days—not because of her liaison with Essex, which I pretended to know nothing about, but because she had used the privy gallery to watch a tennis match, and the rule was that ladies should not use it unless they first asked for permission.

Essex knew that I was annoyed, for it was his game the girl had gone to see, and as I was very cool to him—and had been since Burghley's revelation—he retired from Court with the excuse that he had overexerted himself at the game and had a return of his fever.

Henri Quatre, having changed his religion, was fairly firm on the throne of France and, like myself, he was one who believed that peace brought prosperity. He was therefore trying to bring about a peace with Spain in which he wanted me to join.

Burghley was in favor of this, Essex against it. Burghley said that we needed peace and there was more to be gained from it than war. Essex made a fiery speech in which he extolled the bravery of the English, who had once defeated the Spaniards and would do so again.

Burghley did a strange thing then, which afterward people said was prophetic.

He took up a prayer book and turned the leaves. Then he placed the book in Essex's hands, indicating the words: “Men of blood shall not live out half their days.”

We had other matters nearer home. Burghley stressed the fact that Ireland was giving trouble again, and it was really necessary to appoint a strong Lord Deputy and that we should give full consideration to this without delay.

We were at Greenwich and I called a meeting there.

Burghley was not well enough to attend but his son Robert Cecil was present. There was also Howard of Effingham who, much to Essex's chagrin, had now become the Earl of Nottingham, Essex himself and the Clerk of the Council.

I began by saying that I believed the best man to send to Ireland was Sir William Knollys, who had proved himself to be reliable, shrewd and honest.

Cecil said that he was in complete agreement and he believed that Sir William should be sent without delay.

It was then that Essex raised the objection. Knollys was not the man, he said. It was obvious to him that we should send Sir George Carew.

There was silence in the chamber. Robert Cecil looked taken aback, but I realized the motive behind Essex's outburst. I found that now I was always looking for motives behind his actions. Sir William Knollys was his uncle and he could rely on his support at Court, so naturally he did not want to lose him. It could be said that Knollys was of the Essex faction, whereas George Carew supported the Cecils. To lose Carew would be a blow to them; to lose Knollys would be equally inconvenient for Essex.

I had already agreed with Robert Cecil and the Admiral that Knollys was our best man, and Essex had had the temerity to ignore my views and express his own.

I said firmly: “Knollys should be informed at once that he should prepare to leave for Ireland.”

“It is a mistake!” cried Essex. He was behaving like a petulant boy who has been denied a coveted plaything.

I was really angry with him. His follies were becoming intolerable. I thought of his philandering with the ladies of the Court and his reckless involvement with the King of Scotland. It was time he realized that he was not so sure of my favor that he could behave in such a manner. Robert, in spite of all that had been between us, had never been discourteous to me or raised his voice against me in public.

I saw his blazing eyes and the angry color in his face before he very deliberately turned his back on me.

There was a hushed silence in the chamber. I could not believe he had gone so far. This was something I would not endure. I strode toward him and boxed his ears.

“And now,” I shouted, “go and be hanged.”

That was not the end. He faced me, his fury evident. Then he put his hand on the hilt of his sword as though ready to draw it against me.

“I would not have taken such a blow from King Henry, your father,” he cried. “It is an indignity which I never could—nor would—endure from anyone… No! Certainly not from a king in petticoats.”

I was so taken aback that for a few seconds I did nothing, and just as I was about to call the guards, he dashed from the room.

NEVER HAD SUCH conduct been known. It was being discussed throughout the Court. This is the end of Essex, it was said.

Of course he should be in the Tower. He should suffer the traitor's death. But I was so shaken that I was uncertain how to act.

He is a foolish boy, I said to myself again and again.

He is a dangerous young man, said that wise part of me. Remember the letters to Scotland. What is the use of caring for him? He brings misery to all those who come into contact with him. Poor Frances Walsingham! I pity her. I can even be sorry for his mother.

I knew that his friends were trying to persuade him to attempt a reconciliation. If he had begged forgiveness, I supposed I should have granted it. I had to admit I missed him at Court. But the weeks passed and he remained in sullen retreat.

Then I ceased to think of him, for Robert Cecil came to tell me that his father was very weak indeed.

I went to his house in the Strand and I was shocked to see how ill the poor man was. He lay back in his bed, his eyes apologizing because of his inability to rise. I took his poor swollen hands in mine and kissed them.

I said: “My dear, dear friend, I did not know how ill you were until the Elf told me. Had I known I should have been here ere this.”

“Your Majesty is so gracious to come to me.”

“I shall come… and keep coming… until you are well again.”

He shook his head and said: “I shall rise no more from this bed.”

“I forbid you to say such things. You must get well. You have been beside me so many years. What should I do without you?”

He was overcome with emotion and so was I.

I rose from his bed and asked what food they were giving him. He could only take liquid food, I was told, and only a little of that. His hands were so swollen that he could scarcely lift a spoon to his lips.

I ordered them to make him a gruel which I knew was especially nourishing, and when it was ready I took it to him and fed my minister as though he were a child.

He said that his greatest grief in leaving this world was that he would no longer be able to serve me.

“No queen ever had a more faithful servant,” I assured him. “I have scolded you sometimes, dear Spirit. I have raged against you, have I not? But I never ceased to love you. Nor have I ever been in doubt of your worth.”

I sat in silence by his bed, staring into space. There could be no disguising the fact that he was near his end.

He said: “Robert will serve you well. I have brought him up with this object. He has a sharp and clever mind.”

I nodded. Poor Burghley, he was such a good man and God had ill rewarded him in this life. He had loved his family and looked after them all; and in his care for my well-being he had brought forward his second son, Robert, knowing full well that his first-born, Thomas, who was something of a weakling, lacked the ability to follow in his father's footsteps. I knew I had another treasure in the Elf; but he was not his father. I should never know his like again.

I thought of how I should miss him, for, excellent minister that he was, he was also friend and confidant. We had shared so much—even ailments. He had suffered from his teeth and so had I. Many a pleasant half hour we had spent chatting about our pains. And when he—devoted family man that he was—had lost his daughter some years before, and his wife a year later, it was I who had tried to comfort him.

Life was cruel. His mother had died only a year before his daughter, so that there were three deaths in a row and all were people who were very near and dear to him. He had had trouble enough through his daughter's marriage with Oxford, and I knew full well how often he had wished that marriage had never taken place. But he had great comfort in his grandchildren. Such a good man, I mourned, and such sorrow!

The end was inevitable. I was going to lose another friend, perhaps the most able of them all. I felt lonely and bereft. They were all slipping away from me.

I visited him as frequently as I could while he lingered on, and if a day came when I could not go, I sent one of my ladies to inquire after him, and take affectionate messages and cordials from me.

I felt very very sad and could think of little else but Burghley during those days of waiting for the end.

Why did he have to die? Of course he was in his seventy-sixth year, and that was a goodly age. I remembered all he had done for his country and I doubted England had ever had a more faithful servant. It was so rare to find a man who was excellent in statesmanship and able to enjoy a felicitous family life at the same time. There was not a better husband and father in the land; his grandchildren loved him and his constant thought was for the welfare of his family. Thomas Cecil, the eldest son, must have been a bit of a trial to him because he was wild in his youth, and lacked that fine, keen brain which the younger son, Robert, had inherited. But Burghley with that great good sense, which went side by side with his tenderness toward his family, did not hesitate to bring along Robert, the slightly deformed little Elf whom he was now bequeathing to me. I should honor Robert—not only for his father's sake but for his own. It was typical of Burghley that he should have left me well provided for. We had such a lot in common; his love of music was another of these interests. I was going to be so desolate. I had named him aptly as my Spirit, and I should miss him sorely.

On the day he died his son Robert brought me a letter which his father had written to him. Burghley had been just strong enough to dictate it to his secretary, but he had signed it as well as his swollen hands would allow him “Your languishing Father, Burghley.”

“I pray you diligently and effectually,” the letter ran, “let Her Majesty understand how her singular kindness doth overcome my power to acquit it, who, though she will not be a mother, yet she sheweth herself, by feeding me with her own princely hand, as a careful norice; and if I may be weaned to feed myself, I shall be more ready to serve her on the earth; if not, I hope to be, in heaven, a servitor for her and God's church…”

He had added a postscript:

“Serve God by serving the Queen, for all other service is indeed bondage to the devil.”

I lifted my eyes to Robert Cecil's face. They were filled with tears.

I said: “My grief is as great as yours.”

HOW I MISSED Leicester at that time! The old days were gone forever. Men were not as they had been. They were a disappointment to me. My men were all leaving me—Hatton, Heneage, my dearest Leicester and now Burghley.

I had Robert Cecil, but then he was not handsome, and I did enjoy having handsome people around me. Essex, it was true, was very attractive in appearance, but so feckless and unreliable that he gave me more pain than joy. He was still sulking in exile. Yet if he had been a little humble, a little contrite, I could have pardoned him.

Henry Wriothesley, Earl of Southampton, was a good-looking man and I would have favored him. He was clever and a lover of the arts. He had become the patron of my favorite poet and playwright, William Shakespeare, and I applauded him for this; but he was reckless and arrogant, and did little to win my favor.

I could have had a great interest in him for his chief passion in life was literature; but he was such a wild young man—living among actors and writers of plays in odd corners of London. He was an adventurer of sorts but not the like of Raleigh and Drake. He was a man who wanted to experience life at all levels. He annoyed me because he must have known that I would be interested in him, yet he snapped his fingers at the Court and preferred to consort with his literary friends.

He had become a great friend of Essex; and that was one of the reasons why I watched him with some anxiety. I felt sure that Southampton would be a bad influence on Essex.

For one thing he was said to be fond of his own sex and I heard that he had had many love affairs with men at the Court and outside it, which in itself was enough to make me view his friendship with Essex in some dismay.

Some months previously he had made an unpleasant scene in my Presence Chamber. True, it was after I had gone to bed, but I frowned on such conduct whenever it took place.

Southampton had been playing primero with Raleigh and another gentleman. On my departure the Squire of the Body, Ambrose Willoughby, asked them to stop play, which was the custom after my retirement.

Southampton swaggeringly told him that he had no intention of stopping play until he wished to, at which Willoughby retorted that he would call the guard and forcibly stop the play. Raleigh, who had apparently been winning, pocketed his gains and said he would leave. This infuriated Southampton who shouted after Raleigh that he would remember this against him. Raleigh, who never failed to take a financial advantage, shrugged his shoulders and went off smiling; but Southampton then turned to Willoughby whom he blamed for the whole matter. A fight ensued during which Willoughby got the better of Southampton and pulled out some of his hair.

When I was told of this next morning, I laughed aloud. I complimented Willoughby and made it clear to everyone that I was delighted because Southampton had been taught a lesson.

I suspected that Essex condoled with him. Let him! I thought. Essex was still in exile.

My dislike for Southampton did not diminish when I heard that he had challenged Lord Grey of Wilton to a duel.

Fortunately I heard of this in time and forbade it, sending messages to both Southampton and Wilton telling them that they should reserve their services for me, and not hazard their lives in private quarrels.

I would be glad to be rid of Southampton. I was growing to dislike him more and more. For one thing I found his friendships with other men distasteful. He was constantly with people like Francis Bacon; and they were all friends of Essex. Southampton was always in the center of some quarrel. If he was not challenging someone, he was urging others to do so. One of his friends, Sir Charles Danvers, picked a quarrel with a Hampshire nobleman named Long and killed him. Before Danvers could be brought to justice Southampton smuggled the murderer out of the country.

I was relieved when Southampton was given a minor post in an embassy in Paris. But while he was away I discovered that one of my ladies, Elizabeth Vernon, had become pregnant. This state of affairs always enraged me, and when I had slapped and pummeled the secret out of the girl, I was appalled to find that the man responsible was Southampton.

I sent her away in disgrace and shortly learned that, hearing of her plight, Southampton had hastened home from Paris and married her.

And all this without asking my permission! They were both sent for a spell in the Fleet Prison. They were not there long, but I did make it clear that Southampton's chances at Court were over.

I had at last decided that Essex should return to Court. I should have been very happy if he had given me an apology, and would most willingly have accepted it; but it seemed that was asking too much of his proud nature.

He did appear at Burghley's funeral. More than five hundred followed the hearse, and Essex, shrouded in a hooded black mourning cloak, was conspicuous among those who came to show their respect to the great statesman. I heard that he had seemed overcome with grief—some cynics suggested that it might be more for his own plight, than for the loss of the man in whose house he had once lived.

After the funeral he had gone to Wanstead House, there to live quietly as he was not received at Court.

If only he would have sent one little word to tell me he was sorry for his really outrageous behavior, I would readily have put it down to the indiscretion of youth. But he did nothing of the sort. He was too proud to admit himself in the wrong.

I thought then: What will become of Essex in the end? He has no greater enemy than himself.

News came that he was very ill at Wanstead. Some said he grieved because of his exclusion from Court. He was arrogant and foolish, but he was still Essex, the one to whom I had looked to soothe the hurt left by the loss of Leicester.

So I gave permission for him to return to Court, and I implied that that unprecedented scene in the chamber when I had boxed his ears, was forgotten.

But such scenes are never forgotten. I would remember that one for as long as I lived; and when he returned, pale and wan, but as arrogant as ever, I found myself longing for Leicester more than ever. It had become clear to me that there was no one who could take his place, and it was folly to pretend there ever could be.

Ireland was as usual in upheaval. We had not sent Sir William Knollys or anyone so far; but someone must go now. I wanted Lord Mountjoy to take the post. In spite of his irregular life with Penelope Rich he was an extremely able and reliable man, and I really believed he might have a chance of succeeding in this very difficult task.

Incredible as it might seem, Essex once more raised objections to this choice.

“No, Your Majesty,” he said. “Mountjoy is not the man. He has no experience of war. He has only a small estate and therefore cannot supply many followers, and he is too interested in literature to make a good soldier.”

I was so angry with him. He did not seem to understand that, although I had allowed him to return to Court, I now regarded him in a different light. I no longer had the same love for him. I was prepared to give it, it was true, because I needed to fill the gap left by Leicester, but I had made a discovery—that great affection comes about naturally and it cannot be forced. Much as I wanted that perfect relationship which had been between myself and Leicester, I now accepted the fact that I could never have it. It was the sort of thing which came once in a lifetime, if one was lucky. It could never happen to me again.

I looked at this brash young man. He was very handsome with that brand of interesting looks which appealed to me. I was sixty-six years of age. Was I going to inspire that romantic love I had had from Leicester? Never! It was over.

I turned on Essex and said: “My Lord Essex, you do not like my choice of a man for Ireland any more than you did before. I can see that you believe Mountjoy not to be worthy of the task. Well, perhaps there is one other who might be chosen.”

I saw the satisfied smile play about his lips. I thought: Yes, Essex. You see me as a foolish, doting old woman. I am in some ways; but there is always my serious self looking on at my folly and never failing to make me aware of it.

“Yes,” I continued. “You, my lord. I have decided to send you to Ireland.”

HE WAS TAKEN ABACK. It was not what he wanted. He had planned to stay at Court and rule the country through me. To have forgiven him for that humiliating scene seemed to make it certain to him that he could behave as he liked and still come back to favor. I admit it seemed so. He was thinking he had more influence at Court than even Leicester had had.

When he realized he could not evade the appointment, I will say that he set about the adventure with enthusiasm.

He selected his followers with alacrity, and I was interested to see that his stepfather, Christopher Blount, was one he had chosen to go with him. I heard that there was a deep friendship between those two, and that Blount worshipped Essex—as I believe the whole family did. I wondered what the she-wolf thought about losing her husband and her son at one time.

I was interested to hear that Southampton was going with him. Oh well, I thought, that will rid us of that troublesome gentleman for a time.

It was a day in March when he set out for Ireland and when his cavalcade reached Islington there was a great storm and such a downpour of rain that the men had to take cover from it. People shook their heads over this and said it was a sign that the expedition would not be a success.

The prophecy was not far wrong.

Essex had no love for his task once the first enthusiasm had waned. He knew that to bring law and order to a people like the Irish was an impossibility. He made mistakes. He was unsuited to the mission. I wished that I had sent Mountjoy, who was a clever and steady young man, and who would not take an action without first giving serious thought to it.

Essex bestowed honors on those of whom he was fond. He had made his stepfather Marshal of the Army—a ridiculous appointment and one Blount could never have aspired to but for his relationship with Essex. My policy had always been to favor those whom I liked, but only if they were good enough to do the work. But I could not expect such wisdom from Essex.

He sent word to me that he was proposing to make Blount a member of the Council of Ireland. I promptly replied that there should be no such appointment.

As a result Christopher Blount returned to England. His health was not good, said Essex. Whether this was to be construed as petulance on his part or whether it was actually true, I did not know; and, as I had no intention of displaying the slightest interest in Lettice Knollys's husband, except to forbid him to take posts for which he was unsuited, I did not inquire.

Then came the most startling news. Essex had appointed the Earl of Southampton General of Horse, although he must have known that it was an appointment of which I would disapprove. How dared he give command to such a man—one to whom I had shown my dislike! The post should have gone to Lord Grey who was Southampton's superior in military skill in every possible way. Moreover when the appointment was made official, Grey would be serving under Southampton; and in addition to Grey's being the man of superior knowledge, he was also an enemy of Southampton, who had once intended to fight a duel with him—and would have done so if I had not stepped in.

What was Essex thinking of? He cared nothing for the cause. All he wanted to do was honor his friends—and one who was in disgrace at Court and had shown his defiance of me!

I wrote at once forbidding the appointment.

Essex's answer was that it had already been made and could not be rescinded. I heard too that Southampton, no doubt because he was robbed of the presence of Elizabeth Vernon, was becoming very friendly with the most handsome of the men. He shared a tent with a very good-looking young captain—one Piers Edmonds—and, said my informant, Southampton would hug him in his arms and play wantonly with him.

I was horrified. I sent orders to Essex that the command must be taken from Southampton without delay, and I did this in such authoritative terms that even Essex realized he must obey.

It was not surprising that affairs in Ireland were going badly.

VERY SOON IT became clear that the appointment of Essex had been a disaster.

He ignored my instructions, which were arrived at with the help of the Council. He would go his own way, which was the wrong one. He was defeated everywhere. His excuses were that there was sickness in the army before the battle commenced, or that the weather had been against him.

Why wasn't action taken when the army was in better state? I demanded. And why was the campaign started at the approach of winter? Why had not July or August been chosen? It seemed that none of the seasons of the year had been considered favorable. A messenger arrived to tell me that Essex had been parleying with Hugh O'Neill, Earl of Tyrone, after having come face to face with him at Ardee in Louth where Essex did not attack, his forces being so few in number compared with those of Tyrone. He should have known that it was Tyrone's custom to make agreements that he might break them when it suited him to do so. In any case, Essex had no right to make agreements without first receiving instructions from England.

That infuriated me. Essex was hopeless. There were some who were suggesting that he was serving the Irish better than the English, and that was tantamount to saying that he was a traitor.

It was Michaelmas time and I was at the Palace of Nonesuch. I had risen from my bed and was seated at my dressing table while my ladies were gathered about me ready to assist at my dressing.

I yawned for I was still sleepy. My hair, quite white now, hung about my face in disorder. I was sitting there in my bedgown when the door burst open and a man—muddied from a long ride, disheveled and his clothes awry—came bursting into the apartment. At first I thought he was an assassin—and then I recognized him.

“Essex!” I cried.

“Your Majesty!” He flung himself at my feet and kissed my hand fervently.

He had come from Ireland. He feared evil had been spoken of him. He had ridden through the night and had just arrived at Nonesuch Palace, and had been unable to wait longer before seeing his fair and beauteous Queen.

Fair and beauteous Queen! An old woman of sixty-five, her face pale and unadorned, her white straggly hair awry about her face!

He must be very frightened to talk so, I thought. This means great disaster in Ireland.

Then I was thinking how I must look. He had never before seen me in this state of undress—nor had any man, except one from my window and that was years ago when I had been younger. It was suddenly borne home to me that he must be as astonished to see me as I was to see him—though for different reasons.

My one thought was to get rid of him as quickly as possible. I could not bear that he should see me thus. How different I must look from that scintillating goddess in her jeweled gowns and ruffs and her magnificent curling red hair. He was trying not to look at me. Even he must spare a thought from his own affairs to realize how I was feeling.

I sat very still and spoke gently to him because it was the quickest way of getting rid of him. I would see him later, I said softly. He could tell me everything then.

After he went, I sat very still, trembling with the shock of what had happened. I took up a hand mirror and looked at myself. It was horrible. My face was drained of color. My hair straggled about my shoulders—gray and scanty. I looked what I was—a tired old woman.

How dared he come bursting in like that! Did he think he could behave as the whim took him and that I would forgive him?

I thought: Essex, you have gone too far this time. I will never forgive you for this.

I WAS ESPECIALLY careful with my toilette and when I was ready to go into the Presence Chamber I was sparkling with jewels. There was the faintest color in my cheeks, which gave a brightness to my eyes. Was it anger against this man who had dared see me in my natural state? No man had ever seen me like that before. I had thought none ever would. And he had dared! No, I would never forgive him for that. Always when I saw him I would see myself … old … unadorned … with nothing of beauty left to me.

He was there. His eyes alight with excitement. I thought: By God's Holy Son, he believes that he only has to smile on me and I am his slave. In his mind I am no queen for he stands above me.

You will never have to learn a harder lesson than you will learn now, my Lord Essex, I thought.

He knelt before me. I gave him my hand which he fervently kissed. He raised his eyes to look at me but my gaze was fixed over his head in the distance.

“My fairest Queen …” he began.

I said coolly: “You may rise, Essex.”

“I came to you,” he began breathlessly. “There is so much to tell you…”

I replied shortly: “You may tell it to the Council.”

He was taken aback. I saw the deep color flood his face. He could not believe that I had spoken to him thus.

I turned to Robert Cecil and engaged him in conversation. Essex fell back, a sullen, angry expression on his face. All those present were watchful. They had expected me to give him a warm welcome, and that the erring young man would once more be forgiven his sins and be taken back into favor. But they did not know what he had seen that morning. I should never forget it, though. Every time I saw him, I should remember. And I did not want to be reminded.

HE WAS QUESTIONED by the Council and his answers brought to me. I said that I found them unsatisfactory and this was the general opinion.

It was decided that he should remain in confinement at York House. I traveled down to Richmond with the Court and tried not to think of Essex. I daresay I was sharper with my ladies than ever. I was never happy until I was fully dressed in all my finery, and yet I hesitated long over the gown I should wear. There were, I think, about two thousand of them to choose from. Then there was the wig to be selected from my collection of eighty.

Only when I was fully dressed and a shining sparkling vision looked back at me from the mirror could I feel a little happier.

But I did not want to think of Essex and I certainly did not want to see him.

When I heard that he was ill, I laughed. Was he not always ill when life turned against him? Oh I know Robert had been the same. How many times had I hurried to him to tend him when there was some disagreement between us? Yet I had never blamed him. How could I, when I myself had used the device often enough? I had always smiled indulgently at Robert's illnesses because they showed me he could not bear to be out of favor. He used to be really desperate when he was.

But Essex… now, if he were ill, then he deserved to be. He had been arrogant and too sure of himself. How dared he imagine he knew what was best for Ireland when he had gone there and made a bigger mess of it than any of his predecessors? But most of all how dared he come dashing into my bedchamber when I was unprepared to receive him!

Old Lady Walsingham came to me. I greeted her warmly. She had been a good wife to my dear Moor. She begged me to allow Essex to write to his wife who had just had a baby.

I said coolly: “He is under restraint. It is not permitted for those who are confined as he is to write letters. Moreover the Countess of Essex will surely not wish to hear from one who has treated her with such little regard. He is no more a faithful husband than a faithful subject.”

Lady Walsingham wept, but I hardened my heart. He had treated poor Frances badly. I doubted he had bothered to write many letters to her when he was in Ireland.

Frances herself sent me a jewel in the hope that the bauble would soften my heart toward her husband. Foolish girl! I had jewels in plenty—and in any case nothing would soften my heart toward a young man who had seen me as he had. She should have more pride than to sue for him, considering the manner in which he had treated her, preferring the beds of his mistresses to hers and blatantly letting her know it. I sent the jewel back.

His sisters Penelope and Dorothy dressed themselves in black and came to plead for him. I did receive them, for I saw at once that they were greatly concerned for their brother. It was amazing what affection he had inspired.

I spoke to them gently and said that I understood their anxiety. Their brother was a most misguided young man. He had disobeyed my orders and his case was in the hands of the Council.

Penelope cried out that in my great mercy I could save him. I surveyed her coldly and said: “The Queen is not told by her subjects what she can and cannot do.”

She was aghast. She thought she had done harm to her brother's cause, which she was trying so hard to plead, and I said more kindly: “You may go. His fate is in the hands of the Council. I understand your grief. You are bold because you are fond of him.”

They went away heartened. They thought I had received them kindly and that was a good sign.

But I did not want to see him again because I knew that when I did, I would see myself in his eyes.

A rather disturbing matter arose at this time.

A certain John Hayward had written a book called The History of Henri IV. He had dedicated this book to Essex and had written a dedication in it in which he compared Essex with Bolingbroke. This had caused a ripple of excitement considering the position in which Essex now found himself. Cecil had been horrified at the book and others had found it to be distinctly subversive. Cecil thought there was in it an incitement to rebellion. As a result Hayward was put in the Tower.

Essex was brought before a court in York House and charged with making a dishonorable and dangerous treaty with the Earl of Tyrone, and also with contempt for the government. He had promoted the Earl of Southampton against the wishes of the Queen and Council and had distributed knighthoods when he had no authority to do so. It must have been galling to Essex to have the learned Counsel Francis Bacon taking part in the proceedings against him. It was not a trial, being entirely informal, and I believe that afterward Bacon tried to justify himself for speaking against the man who regarded him as a friend, by stating that in acting in this manner he was able to retain the Queen's confidence, which he hoped later to use in Essex's favor. However, the result of the tribunal was that Essex was dismissed from all the offices he held, and was to remain a prisoner in York House until further notice.

I could not forget him as I should have liked to. I had loved him, even though I knew his character to be too simple to give him any hope of fulfilling his high ambitions. He was too passionate and too candid; he was like a blundering but endearing schoolboy at his most charming; at his worst he was almost oafish. He was politically ignorant; he was vain in the extreme and there was no doubt that he had the power to fascinate the opposite sex. There had been many times when I had treated him as a lover—almost as I had Leicester; but he did not see it as a game I was playing. He had the myopia of the small mind which sees itself as a giant among pygmies. It was ridiculous for such a man to believe he could pit his wits against men such as Cecil. What a fool he had been. And because women liked him, he thought he could dominate me.

Meanwhile Mountjoy had been sent to Ireland and it was gratifying to find that he was beginning to make a success of that most difficult of tasks. I hoped Essex remembered that it had been my plan to send Mountjoy in the first place. How he must regret his opposition to that suggestion!

I did not want him to remain in confinement, and after three months he was released, but banned from any public posts and forbidden to appear at Court.

It must have been obvious, even to Essex, that his advancement at Court was over.

He was in a dire state; his health was failing; he had been cut off from the most influential men at Court, and he was in financial difficulties. One of the biggest sources of income for him had been the lease he had held on the sweet wines and which was a concession many longed for. I had given him a lease of ten years and that period was running out. If it were not renewed he would be poor indeed. He wrote to me begging me to renew it.

Why should I give this great concession to one who had flouted me? Moreover, I had heard that he was gathering together in his house a band of disgruntled men—those who had a grievance against the state and that meant against me; and much wild conversation took place there, which was occasionally brought to my ears.

So I refused to renew the lease on the sweet wines.

Perhaps it was not to be expected that he would sink into a life of obscurity. There would always be trouble wherever Essex was.

Tension was rising. Southampton, that man who displeased me so much, was visiting Essex House frequently. One day Southampton came face to face with Lord Grey near Durham House. The old enemies quickly picked a quarrel and during the fighting which broke out, one of Southampton's men lost a hand.

Such brawling was against the law and Grey was arrested since it was his man who had caused the damage.

Knowing Southampton's quarrelsome nature I agreed that Grey might not be to blame and he was released, much to the chagrin of Southampton—and of course of Essex.

I imagined Lettice's feelings at this time. How anxious she must have been for her son! She was clever enough to see that he was heading straight for disaster. One thing I was certain of: He should never come to Court again, though there were some who still believed that he would. They had seen my fondness for Leicester; they had marveled that after his marriage, which had so upset me at the time, I had received him back at Court and become as close to him as ever. They did not understand. With Leicester it had been a lasting love; with Essex it was a dream, a pretense, a ridiculous fantasy, which I had fabricated in the belief that I could catch at my youth again and be loved as Leicester had loved me.

Essex himself had brought real life into vivid existence when he had come face to face with an old woman.

The dream was over—and that could only mean the end of Essex, unless he was prepared to live quietly in some place far from Court. As if he ever would!

He was still writing pleading letters, still having bouts of illness; but although I sent him broth from time to time, I would not relent.

He had his enemies among the ladies of my Court—possibly those he had dallied with for a while and then deserted—and they did not hesitate to pass on gossip that was detrimental to him. I was shocked when I realized that his adoration of me had turned to vilification.

It was reported that he had said that now I was an old woman my mind was as distorted as my carcass.

And this was the man who, a short time before, had been extolling my beauty!

Clearly he knew that there was no chance of a reconciliation between us. If he had been wiser he would have known it from the time he strode into my bedchamber and confronted an old woman. But when had he ever been wise? When had he ever learned?

Desperate men were gathering at Essex House—men who had little hope of making their way in my Court. They were seeking a way to fame and fortune, and they knew that could not come to them through me. So they were looking elsewhere—some to the Infante of Spain for whom they could make out a remote claim; some to James of Scotland who was the next in line to the succession.

It seemed incredible that even Essex could be crazy enough to plan a revolution. But he had some to support him—all those failures who had not made their way at Court. Oh, the foolish boy! If ever anyone asked for selfdestruction, it was Essex.

When his followers persuaded the players at the Globe to put on William Shakespeare's Richard the Second, I presumed it was to show the people how easy it was for one king to abdicate and to be replaced by another.

Raleigh—Essex's old enemy—came to me in a state of some excitement. He had rowed himself down the Thames and as he was passing Essex House, he had been shot at. He had been to visit Sir Fernando Gorges, a great friend of Drake's, who in spite of his name had come from a family who settled in England at the time of Henry I—a man who had served England well and had been governor of Plymouth—hence his friendship with Drake. Gorges told Drake that Essex had made an effort to enlist him in his enterprise.

“Your Majesty,” said Raleigh, “the actions of Essex are now becoming dangerous. According to Gorges there are plots in progress, and Gorges does not like the sound of them. He says there will be bloodshed. And, as Your Majesty knows, Essex is capable of any wild act.”

“I think,” I said, “it is time some action was taken about the Essex House plotters.”

I called the Council together and I chose four men to call on Essex. The Lord Keeper, Sir Thomas Egerton, was one of them and John Popham the Chief Justice another. They went with the dignity of the posts they held, and accompanying them was Essex's uncle, Sir William Knollys, who would naturally show some sympathy to his kinsman; the Earl of Worcester, who had at one time been a friend of Essex, was also of the party. I sent these men because I thought Essex would understand why I had chosen them; they were more likely to bring about a peaceful conclusion to the trouble than such as Sir Walter Raleigh.

But at the same time I ordered troops to be gathered together, ready to march on Essex House if need be.

Then I went about the ordinary business of the day.

Essex received the party of four and complained to them that his life was in danger and that he was only protecting himself, whereupon Egerton put on his hat, which proclaimed that he came in his official role, and made the usual statement.

“I command you all upon your allegiance to lay down your weapons and depart, which you all ought to do, thus being commanded, if you be good subjects and owe that duty to the Queen which you possess.”

It was Essex's chance—not to come back into favor; he would never do that and he knew it—but to save his life.

But of course he would not help himself.

He pushed the councilors aside and left the house accompanied by two hundred armed men—among them his stepfather Christopher Blount.

I heard about it afterward—how he rode through the streets of London calling to the citizens to come and join him, really believing that James of Scotland would send an army to his aid. He was my enemy in truth, for the plot was to replace me, kill me if need be. It was galling to realize that this young man whom I had loved and tried to put into Robert's place could behave so.

Did he really believe that because he had enjoyed certain popularity with the Londoners he could turn them against me! I had been their beloved sovereign for more than forty years. They loved me. The Londoners were as shrewd as any people in this kingdom—or any other—and they knew that I had brought peace, prosperity and victory at sea which had made them secure. Did he really believe that they would overthrow me because a foolish boy was annoyed with me? Did he really believe I could be replaced by a princess from Spain or a young man from across the Border?

His little rebellion was soon quelled. Sir Christopher Blount was wounded and captured; and very soon Essex and Southampton, with others, were in the Tower.

HE COULD NOT be anything but guilty. He was a traitor who had plotted against the Crown, who had tried to raise men against the Sovereign and planned her assassination in order to put another in her place. It was blatant treachery and there was no other name for it. Therefore there could be no other course than to find Essex, with Southampton and Christopher Blount, guilty. They were sentenced to death and again it was my bitter duty to sign the death warrants.

I decided to spare Southampton's life for I was sure he had been drawn into the conspiracy by Essex, and eventually he was condemned to life imprisonment. Christopher Blount was to suffer the death penalty.

I knew there were some who believed I would not sign Essex's death warrant. They remembered how I had hated signing that of Mary of Scotland. They believed that I was weak where my affections were concerned; they considered how many times I had forgiven Leicester. It was true, I was faithful in my affections, and had I not forgiven him time and time again?

But there was a difference. I had not loved Essex as I had loved Leicester. My love for Robert had been as real as life itself; for Essex it was but a fantasy. I had tried to believe I was young again, capable of arousing love and desire, and when that brash young man had burst into my chamber so unceremoniously he had destroyed a dream and with it himself.

On a cold February day Essex walked out of his prison in the Tower to his execution.

He looked very handsome in a cloak of black velvet over a satin suit and wearing a black hat. He mounted the scaffold calmly and bravely, although he had been less so after his sentence and had accused all manner of people, including his own sister, of drawing him into intrigue; and he had heaped reproaches on Sir Francis Bacon, whom he had believed to be his friend and who had acted as one of the prosecution's lawyers.

“Oh God be merciful to me, the most wretched creature on Earth,” he prayed.

He took off his hat and standing there beside the scaffold he addressed the assembly.

“My lords and you, my Christian brethren who are to be witnesses of this my just punishment, I confess to the glory of God that I am a most wretched sinner, and that my sins are more in number than the hairs of my head; that I have bestowed my youth in pride, lust, uncleanness, vainglory and divers other sins…

“Lord Jesus, forgive it us, and forgive it me, the most wretched of all… The Lord grant Her Majesty a prosperous reign and a long one, if it be His Will. Oh Lord, bless her and the nobles and ministers of the Church and State. And I beseech you and the world to have a charitable opinion of me for my intention upon Her Majesty, whose death upon my salvation and before God, I protest I never meant, nor violence to her person, yet I confess I have received an honorable trial and am justly condemned. And I desire all the world to forgive me, even as I do freely and from my heart forgive the world…”

When he had taken off his ruff and his gown, the executioner came forward and as was the custom asked his forgiveness.

“Thou art welcome,” he replied. “I forgive thee. Thou art the minister of justice.”

He took off his doublet and stood there in his scarlet waistcoat. Then he prayed for humility and patience.

Would to God he had cultivated those qualities in life. If he had done so, he would not have been standing where he was at that time.

He knelt on the straw and put his head on the block; and that was the end of my Lord Essex.