by Derek Wilson
Elizabeth was turning this way and that to avoid a reality she did not wish to face: the event which had made her marriage to Dudley possible had also made it impossible.
The game of love that Elizabeth had been able to play with Robert precisely because he was unavailable was over. Now she had to face up to marriage issues in real earnest.
Was Amy’s death at this precise time purely fortuitous or should we look for a more sinister explanations? Suicide has always been ruled out. No one at the time suggested it as remotely likely, nor would anyone contemplating self-slaughter fling herself down a flight of shallow stairs with two landings. Accident then? Are there any circumstances which could have made a simple slip fatal? Modern theorists have come up with two medical conditions which could have produced such a result. One is breast cancer. It is a painful and emotionally disturbing disease and there was no means of combating its inexorable encroachment. A woman suffering from such a malady might well become ‘desperate’ and be prone to bouts of irrational anger. Furthermore, as the disease develops, cancerous deposits are built up in the bones. If the cervical spine is affected in this way, the slightest jolt (such as would arise from simply walking down stairs) is enough to cause a fracture (in other words a broken neck). A slightly less convincing theory, but one which adequately takes account of the available medical evidence, is that Amy was suffering from an aortic aneurism, a morbid enlargement of the great artery of the left ventricle of the heart. The symptoms of this condition are pains in the chest, sometimes accompanied by a swelling on the chest wall, and a secondary complaint known as ischaemia. This is mental instability caused by insufficient blood reaching the brain. The patient would certainly be given to fits of rage and depression. Again any slight sudden pressure can burst the aneurism, whereupon death is instantaneous. If such a death had overtaken Amy, even near the foot of the staircase, she might well have pitched forward awkwardly and struck the floor with sufficient force to break her neck.
Such suggestions have been advanced because no evidence of foul play was brought forward in 1560. The third possibility is that, as most contemporaries believed, Lady Dudley was murdered. Some assassin, acting on instructions, entered the deserted Cumnor Place, attacked Amy, whose cries would not have been heard, and arranged the body to make death appear accidental. This cannot be ruled out but what can perhaps be ruled out is that Dudley and/or the queen were the agents of Amy’s death. Whether or not they wanted to be free to marry, they knew the rumours that were current and that any suspicion attending Amy’s death would rebound upon them. Their reactions on hearing the news from Cumnor make it quite clear that they were genuinely dismayed by it and understood its implications.
In any modern investigation of a suspicious death one question that would be asked would be ‘Who stood to gain from it?’ If we pose the same question about the Cumnor mystery, the answer has to be ‘certainly not Robert Dudley.’ There was only one person who gained anything from the sudden death of the favourite’s wife. That person certainly had motive. He was facing ruin in the summer of 1560 and he believed that his own and the nation’s ills stemmed from Elizabeth’s infatuation for her Master of the Horse. He was, by his own confession, in a desperate state of mind. His behaviour prior to the incident was highly suspicious, for he deliberately spread the story that the Queen and her lover were plotting Lady Dudley’s death. No one has ever made out a case for Cecil as a calculating murderer but he is just as plausible a candidate as Robert Dudley.
Elizabeth hated having decisions forced upon her. She knew inwardly that marriage with Robert was impossible – more so now than ever – but she was not going to give the appearance of being pushed into a corner by public opinion or by the preaching of outraged diplomats. She ostentatiously resumed her support for Robert. In October she decided to grant him an earldom. This was to be a further public acknowledgement of her regard but, inevitably, those around her saw it as a move to make him more acceptable as a potential husband. It was not well-advised. If the Dudleys were to have some of their father’s honour restored to them, Ambrose should have been the first to be ennobled. It was an act which could only exacerbate jealousy and ill-feeling. If her advisers protested, Elizabeth simply went ahead with more determination. The patent was drawn up. Then, at the last moment, in a fit of rage, Elizabeth took a penknife and cut the document to shreds. Yet again, her inner turmoil became externalized and was painfully obvious to all.
Life could not continue indefinitely at this high pitch and over the following months everyone settled down. Cecil and Dudley found a modus vivendi which recognized that Mr Secretary was the Queen’s principal agent in state affairs but that Robert was definitely a lead figure in the political process. At Christmastide 1561 the Dudleys took a major step towards their former pre-eminence. The earldom of Warwick was restored to Ambrose and he and his brother both received significant grants of land that had reverted to the crown on their father’s attainder. In the following months Robert’s political stature increased. He began taking initiatives in the international field and he gathered round him a group of thinkers, statesmen and religious leaders which can be called a ‘party’.
The launch platform for this Protestant imperialism was an attempt to intervene in the internal affairs of France. The stability of that country had collapsed in a religious war between the Catholics led by the Guise family and the Huguenots whose champions were the Prince of Condé and Admiral Coligny. Throckmorton urged Elizabeth to come to the aid of her co-religionists and his appeal was echoed in English Protestant circles. The queen was not interested in confessional conflict but she did see the possibility of achieving something very close to her heart – the regaining of Calais. This was one reason why she abandoned her usual dislike of military activity and agreed to commit troops to a French campaign. The other was that it was enthusiastically sponsored by Robert Dudley. Most of the Council were sympathetic but it was Dudley, not of their number, who assumed the lead. Cecil was forced into a subordinate role. He tried and failed to commend a policy of conciliating the rival parties in France. After that he could do nothing but implement the policy of his colleagues. The Secretary wrote the letters, sent the messengers, passed on conciliar instructions but it was Lord Robert who initiated those instructions. In May he sent his brother-in-law, Henry Sidney, to France as his personal representative. It was Sidney who won over Nicholas Throckmorton. No longer did the ambassador regard Dudley as a political disaster. Now, he saw the queen’s favourite as a knight commander of the true faith and a valued ally in the struggle against Antichrist.
It was a sentiment many radical Protestants shared. By October all was ready for the military expedition. Six thousand troops were ready for embarkation and their leadership was given to the Ambrose Dudley. Then everything was put on hold as heart-stopping news came from Elizabeth’s privy chamber: ‘The queen is nigh to death.’
1562 was a bad year for smallpox. Hundreds of people of high and low degree succumbed. Soon after arriving at Hampton Court Elizabeth developed a fever and became delirious. Her physicians gathered round but could do little except encourage the disease to reach – and pass – its crisis. But the crisis did not come; the pustules were slow to develop and the queen grew weaker. She would only allow her favourite maids to attend her. Her most constant attendant was Mary Sidney who paid for her devotion by contracting the disease herself and becoming hideously scarred by it.
Panic seized court and Council as the prospect of a third short reign in succession, with all its attendant dislocation, stared them in the face. Everyone fell to discussing and planning for the succession. Support was divided between the claims of Catherine Grey, currently in the Tower for marrying without royal permission, and Henry Hastings, the new Earl of Huntingdon (he had succeeded to the title in 1561), the choice of those religious rigorists who from about this time began to be called ‘Puritans’. The Council was paralyzed by divisions. The queen lapsed into unconsciousness and was unable to make
her will known. Then, thanks perhaps to the ministrations of a German doctor brought in by Lord Hunsdon, Elizabeth began to show signs of recovery. Her advisers hastily congregated round her bed, more interested in what would happen if she died than in doing what they could to help her live. The queen came out of her delirium and spoke with total clarity and, for once, without equivocation. What she had to say stunned the hearers and dismayed most of them. In the event of her death, she ordered, they were to appoint her beloved Robert Dudley as Protector of the Realm with a salary of £20,000. She went on to tell them of her trust and love for Robert – love she assured them which had never involved them in any impropriety.
This is the moment at which we can take full measure of Elizabeth’s feelings for Robert Dudley. In extremis she declared, not only her love for him, but also her confidence in him as someone of political weight. More than that, Robert she firmly believed, was a man who had the skill and the charisma to lead the nation. It was the second occasion on which a Tudor had looked back from death’s door to deliver a political bombshell. Had Elizabeth died at this point and had Robert, like his father, attempted to carry out the wishes of his late sovereign, the consequences must have been even more serious than in 1553. It was an intense relief to everyone, including, one imagines, Dudley, when the queen’s improvement continued. But she did not allow her advisers to dismiss her remarks as the outpourings of a fevered brain. On 20 October she appointed Robert to the Council. The only concession she made to his opponents was nominating the Duke of Norfolk at the same time. This was a turning point, not only for Dudley, but also for the reign. Elizabeth kept her Council fairly small and only nominated men whose judgement she valued and respected. Robert had worked hard to merit a place in her government. He had interested himself in every aspect of national and international affairs. He had given advice when called for. He had provided the queen with snippets of information gleaned from his own sources. He had negotiated on her behalf with councillors, diplomats and local officials. When given the chance he had initiated policies of his own and shown himself skilful in carrying them into effect. He deserved his place at the Council table, he valued it, and to the end of his days that place was seldom empty.
Elizabeth said something else when her body was racked by fever, something seemingly inconsequential but, in fact, the only statement she ever made which might provide a clue to the degree of her intimacy with Robert. Having assured her hearers that nothing improper had ever passed between them, she ordered that one Tamworth, Dudley’s body servant, was to receive an enormous pension of £500 per annum. Was this hush money? Tamworth slept in Robert’s bedchamber and kept the door of his inner sanctum. He was the only person who had regularly witnessed the comings and goings between the apartments of the queen and her favourite. He had stood guard at the door while they indulged in sweet dalliance. He was the keeper of their secrets. He was the man best able to confirm or deny the innocence of their relationship. Was Elizabeth’s unexpected bequest to him the result of prudence or a guilty conscience?
Once Elizabeth was on the mend the French campaign dominated the government’s agenda. It failed because the commander in the field and the commander-in-chief in her distant palace had conflicting objectives. Ambrose Dudley, whose suite included several Puritan enthusiasts who preached to the soldiers the glory of this Protestant crusade, crossed to Le Havre (then called Newhaven). His objective was to break out from there to assist the Huguenots, currently being hard pressed in their other strongholds of Dieppe and Rouen. Elizabeth did not see her role as liberating foreign Calvinists. She intended her troops to hold on to Le Havre so that it could be traded for Calais in the ensuing peace negotiations. She therefore ordered Ambrose to stay and defend his position come what may. For weeks he and his troops held on bravely even when contrary winds prevented supplies being brought in. Ambrose urged the government to sanction a larger military commitment. If the queen would not allow him to move onto the offensive while French affairs were still in some disorder, he argued that, with more arms and men, he might still be able to make important gains which would give England a good bargaining position. Robert strongly supported his brother’s professional assessment of the military situation but the queen would have none of it. She would not even provide sufficient funds for repairing the defences of Le Havre. She made a token demonstration of her confidence in Warwick by admitting him to the Order of the Garter in April but that was the extent of her commitment. Meanwhile plague struck the besieged garrison. In July, with his men dying in large numbers every day, Ambrose was forced to seek Elizabeth’s permission to surrender. The queen agreed and he offered to discuss peace terms with the attackers. It was while standing on the wall and parleying with his opposite number that he was shot in the leg by a French musketeer. The wound never healed properly and for the rest of his life he was lame and had to use a stick. Though feverish and in pain he remained at Le Havre until he had concluded arrangements for the honourable withdrawal of his army. Within months two members of the family had been marred for life because of their unquestioning devotion to the queen. Loyalty to the Tudors was still proving costly to the Dudleys.
Of course, there continued to be material compensations. In June, perhaps as some acknowledgement that she was in part to blame for the Le Havre fiasco, Elizabeth agreed to support the Dudleys’ territorial ambitions in the Midlands. Ever since the beginning of the reign Robert had been seeking to reconstruct the family’s position as leading landholders in the region. He had failed to acquire Dudley Castle but his brother had received Warwick Castle and between them they now controlled much of their father’s former territory in the area. What Robert lacked was an impressive seat of his own. The only really suitable building under royal ownership was Kenilworth. This castle-palace complex was five miles from Warwick and was reckoned by John Leland in his Itinerary (1546) as the only other habitable castle in the shire. For a century and a half it had formed part of the Duchy of Lancaster lands, the only interruption being a few months in 1553 when John Dudley had appropriated it. Robert longed to reclaim it for his family and thus establish that the Dudleys were great in the land. At last, in the summer of 1563, the queen yielded to his importunings.
Kenilworth Castle had what Lancelot Brown would undoubtedly have called ‘capabilities’. William Dugdale, in the seventeenth century, reckoned that it should be ‘ranked in the third place, at least, with the most stately castles of England’, but this was after Robert Dudley had got his hands on it. What he found when he took possession was a twelfth to fourteenth-century fortress in a spectacular situation. It was surrounded on three sides by a great mere which had originally been its principal defence but which now could be used for pleasure. Its massive Norman keep reared up over the landscape and to it John of Gaunt had added a resplendent hall and other spacious chambers overlooking the lake. But thereafter its royal owners had done little more than maintain it. Leland recorded, ‘King Henry VIII did of late years great cost in repairing the castle,’10 but it was still an antique building which did not afford the comforts a sixteenth-century owner and his guests would look for. Within days of receiving his letters patent Dudley was on the road north with grandiose plans in mind. Soon he had an army of masons, carpenters, glaziers, tilers and labourers at work transforming Kenilworth Castle into an Elizabethan great house. It became the architectural expression of his exuberant yet cultured persona.
Kenilworth also became almost an obsession. Whenever he could escape from court for two or three days he was to be found on site, checking details and, as like as not, changing his workmen’s instructions. Dudley constructed a new gatehouse, a 600-foot causeway which doubled as a tiltyard, up-to-date domestic offices and stables, and laid out a large formal garden. But his main contribution was Leicester’s Building, a large guest block on the south side of the outer court, balancing the ancient keep (known as Caesar’s Tower). This never failed to impress the honoured visitors for whom it was created. One of them des
cribed it glowingly as a
rare beauty of building that his Honour hath advanced . . . every room so spacious, so well belighted and so high roofed within; so seemly to sight by due proportion without; in daytime on every side so glittering by glasses; at nights, by continual brightness of candles, fire and torchlight transparent through the lightsome windows.11
We need to put this building spree into perspective. All over the country courtiers, merchants and substantial landowners were studding the landscape with status symbols in the latest style. Cecil, for example, was already at work transforming his family home near Stamford into the magnificent Burghley House, and he was able to play host to the queen on progress in his Hertfordshire estate at Theobalds long before Dudley was in a position to offer her hospitality. Elizabeth actively encouraged her wealthier subjects to vie with each other in building great houses within easy reach of the capital. It provided her with more places to stay cheaply during her summer tours and it encouraged rivalry in devotion which she found flattering. Thus Sir Christopher Hatton took advice from Cecil in order to create Holdenby House, Northamptonshire, the largest country house in England, specifically in the hope of entertaining Elizabeth there. It was all part of the routine of preferment, for lavish generosity was not all one way: hosts set out to make an impression on the queen in order to enhance their standing and obtain a favourable response to their own petitions for marks of royal favour.
If Dudley was to stay ahead of the field in Elizabeth’s estimation he had no alternative but to compete in making a display. Yet, lavish he may have been; foolhardy he was not. The agents he dispatched to find furnishings for his homes had to be cost conscious, as we know from his correspondence. To his ‘loving servant Anthony Forster’ Robert sent very specific instructions: