His Last Letter

by Jeane Westin

  Stealing a glance at the queen, he saw she had advanced to Anne’s side and watched him with a faint smile. She would be seeing the black ribbon around his shooting arm from which dangled a large white pearl. Bess would know that he intended it as her favor.

  He raised his bow, fitted an arrow nock into the bowstring and took a wide stance, his left foot slightly ahead of his right. Pulling the arrow back strongly with three fingers, he let fly and hit the post, burying his point deep in the wood. He resisted a prideful smile, waving a hand briefly to acknowledge the applause.

  “Twenty points for the Earl of Leicester,” shouted the archery master.

  There were cheers from the villagers and other archers. The lady’s maid on the edge of the green stepped forward to see better.

  Sir Christopher shot next, taking a bold stance, raising his arrow to his nose before loosing it, but it flew to the left and landed within three feet of the post.

  Robert applauded politely with the villagers as the master shouted, “Seventeen points for Sir Christopher.”

  “Good shot,” Robert shouted.

  Hatton bowed. “Not as good as yours, my lord.”

  The man sounded sincere. Perhaps . . . just perhaps they could be, if not friends, at least honorable enemies. Jesu knew he had a surfeit of the other kind.

  Robert strode to the post and sighted his arrow on the second mark, a red flag. He waited for the breeze to pick up the flag to give him a wider shot. But the breeze died to calm as he loosed and his arrow landed within the three-foot circle. The master awarded him seventeen points.

  Sir Christopher took careful aim this time, sighting the arrow lower, and hit the flag, pinning it to the ground.

  “Excellent shot, sir,” Leicester shouted, determined to be chivalrous. They were even in points and so it remained around the marks until the last shot, the most difficult of the day. The mark was a dovecote in the village church tower.

  “Difficult mark, my lord,” Hatton said at his shoulder.

  Robert shrugged. “I spent my boyhood shooting at birds. I know their habits.”

  Hatton bowed, his face pleasant. “For one unpracticed, as you say, I honor your skill, my lord.” He was either a playacting flatterer or too good-hearted for royal service where goodness was seen as an Achilles’ heel. At that moment, Robert felt his sincerity . . . strange for a Tudor court. If he was as he seemed, he would need an earl’s protection against those who would take advantage. Robert warned himself against such foolishness. When did a true courtier come to aid his rival if he were not a fool!

  He saw Elizabeth leaning forward in anticipation of his turn, her face clear of white paste and red cochineal, looking as young and fresh as a true village maid. She saw him and must know he saw her, but her eyes avoided his and he turned to the target.

  The dovecote was thirty feet in the air, doves cooing and flapping about their roosts as if to celebrate another day they had escaped a village cook pot.

  He tested the wind with a wet finger. The breeze had picked up again. He would have to gauge the crosswind and the doves’ habits of bobbing up and down, suddenly going back inside the cote or unexpectedly fluttering off their perch. He had killed them as a boy and proudly taken them to his mother’s cook for a meat pie. But that was many years ago. He briefly but carefully watched the birds and their habits and picked the fleshy one in the middle who seemed quieter. And it was the best shot. If he missed it, he’d have a chance to hit one of the other two off its perch.

  Glancing again toward Bess, he saw that she had stepped in front of her “mistress” and was drawing the curious glances of the villagers. A plain gown could not hide this queen. The countryside would be buzzing with talk of Elizabeth in her disguise, the tale told for years. And Bess would savor it.

  Shaking his head, he dislodged the image of her and looked down, carefully placing the arrow nock on the bowstring. Here was another tale to be told around their cottage fires.

  He sucked in breath and tensed his stomach muscles, raised his bow knowing he must release the arrow at once. He loosed. The arrow flew true and the shouting began, but his bird ducked inside the cote to its nest a brief moment before the arrow reached it. The villagers groaned, or was it his own voice he heard?

  Village boys were already on the tower climbing to the cote. One retrieved his arrow and held up the pigeon by its legs, very much alive, frantically fluttering over his head.

  “Nay, lad, the bird lives,” he shouted. “It fairly dodged my arrow.” He bowed to the villagers and they cheered him politely, but the lady’s maid had turned away. Bess was embarrassed for him. She knew nothing but winning.

  “A good shot, my lord,” Hatton said, bowing.

  Since there was no trace of triumph on his face, he meant to be chivalrous. “Sir Christopher,” Robert said, returning the bow, “I pray you a better aim.”

  And, of course, God granted his prayer, when he had been denied so many others. The skewered bird fell at Hatton’s feet to hearty applause. He handed it to a beldam for her supper.

  Shouldering his bow, the handsome gentleman pensioner walked straight toward Elizabeth. “From this maid I will take my prize,” he shouted. Taking her in his arms, Hatton kissed her soundly to raucous cheers and a flute and drums playing a lively country tune. Elizabeth smiled up at him.

  Now the villagers would talk endlessly for years of that kiss while the great Earl of Leicester looked on haplessly. Robert bowed to the master bowyer and leaped to his horse. S’blood, he could not, would not, watch longer. Was this what Elizabeth had come for? His stomach churned and he forgot all his kind thoughts of Hatton. Why not call him out on some pretext? What would Bess do if her Robert disobeyed her law against dueling and killed another favorite? Would she dare send him to the Tower after what they had endured there together?

  His chest burned with held breath, heated by resentment he could no longer feel for Hatton. He had nowhere to aim it but Bess . . . and yes, he could be angry with her even after his own misdeeds. Did he not reap kisses elsewhere?

  Robert galloped from the village and onto the cart road for Hampton Court. He cared nothing for the heat and dust; he cared only to get away quickly. Losing the contest meant embarrassment, but losing even one of Bess’s kisses to another man meant much more. He told himself he was being foolish, acting like a jealous lad, and not a man who took love where he found it. But it did no good, as it never did.

  That night he dressed for a masque in the great hall. He was in no mood for it, but if he were not in his place, some other man would eagerly fill it. His heart was in his boots as he approached the great hall until he heard the sweet, high voices of the Chapel Royal boys singing:When we two are parted

  All the world is gray.

  Star and moon and sunshine

  Go with him away.

  His fast-beating heart flooded with hope. He stepped inside to see if Elizabeth waited for him and this was her tender greeting, her signal that Hatton’s kiss meant nothing lasting.

  The queen, her jeweled gown sparkling in the candlelight, saw him. He was certain. She immediately called for a galliard and stepped out with Hatton. So the sweet song was for the gentleman pensioner and winning archer . . . deliverer of sweet kisses. Not for him. He tasted bile and fought to keep his face a blank but he knew his jaw tightened, his eyes grew blacker and his mouth became harder.

  He could see how well Hatton danced, living up to the name some wags had bestowed on him, “the Dancing Pensioner.” Did she seek to humiliate Robert or show her trim ankles to another man?

  Robert felt his face heat with anger, but he made a stiff bow in her direction, so brief it was nearly an insult. Walking toward a group of ladies against the rear wall, he stopped in front of the Baroness Douglass Sheffield and bowed low enough for the queen. “My lady,” he said, removing his glove and holding out his hand, “I am free to attend you now.” Douglass was not a dancer of Elizabeth’s skill, but he would make her look better. She was al
ready good to look at with her blond hair, fair face, pointed chin and large green eyes that he swore could see in the dark. Her sister, Lady Frances Howard, stood beside her, her lovely hazel eyes flashing angrily at Douglass.

  The sisters were each in love with him. He would dance with one, then the other, and Bess would regret her treatment of him.

  Robert began to feel himself again.

  “My lord Leicester, I am honored,” Douglass said formally for the benefit of those around them.

  She took his hand while Frances pouted and he found the hand heated, as was the red growing on her neck and face.

  “I thank you, my lady,” he said loudly, as if meeting her for the first time. “I have long wanted to make your better acquaintance.” He probably fooled no one, but that was the court game everyone played.

  He guided her closer and closer to Elizabeth and Hatton, knowing that the queen was perfectly aware of him and of the attractive lady with whom he danced.

  “Robert, don’t take me near the queen. Please!”

  “I must. I have no choice, or she will be suspicious.” Not more than she is, he thought, but did not voice it.

  Elizabeth looked at him with surprise, as if unaware of his presence. “Here you are, Robin. I called for you but you were not in your apartments and not in your place beside me. You grow lazy in duty to your sovereign.” She stopped dancing; the music ceased and every courtier turned an interested face toward them.

  He knelt to his queen and bowed his head to hide his angry face at her reprimand in front of Hatton.

  “Come,” she said, holding out her hand for him to kiss. “Rise, Lord Robert, stay your brooding and sit with me.” She smiled at him, amused, as if he were a young lad in a sulk for not having his way . . . and perhaps he was, but he would not be treated so before the court, not even by Elizabeth. Every day, he must watch her bestow her favor on other men. Let her watch him with another woman!

  As the years had all slipped by, now twelve since his wife, Amy, died and six since Rycote, he and Bess could have married and had princes. And waiting had not become easier but more difficult and far more wounding. They said that the heat of youth burned lower with the years, but it had never been so with him.

  How much longer could she keep him waiting? Did she think that serving her was enough for a man? Maybe for a Dancing Pensioner like Hatton, but not for the Earl of Leicester. He wanted to laugh, but it would not come out. He knew his response would be a mistake, but he refused to stop himself.

  He stood. “Majesty, excuse me, but I am most occupied with the Baroness Douglass in the galliard.”

  Elizabeth’s turned red as she filled with rage. “There is no music, my lord, and there will be none!”

  “I am sorry for that, Your Grace, since you were dancing so skillfully with the archer.” He lowered his voice until only Hatton and the queen and Douglass heard him. “By your leave, madam, I will make my own music.”

  He tightened his hold on Douglass Sheffield’s arm.

  “My lord, get me from this place,” she urged him in a nearly breathless whisper.

  He steered her out of the great hall toward her own room, expecting Elizabeth to demand his return at any moment, but she did not.

  “I seek sweet company tonight, my lady Douglass.” He exhaled slowly. The war of words with Bess was always exhausting. “Shall we walk in the perfume garden together?”

  “Are you running mad, Robert?”

  “I may walk with whom I choose, Douglass.”

  “Not in the queen’s court, or in her privy garden. You will have me in the Tower.” She looked to escape from him. “I must away. She will know if she looks at me again, already suspicious.”

  “Know what . . . that we walk in her garden? Must I have permission for that? Jesu, I can walk and piss where I please!” He only half heard her quavering response, wondering instead if Bess would call him to her tonight, or wait to punish him tomorrow.

  “Rob, please—”

  “Don’t call me that.”

  The woman, always so sweet and docile, was now demanding and difficult, as sooner or later all women were no matter how they loved you.

  “My lord earl, I am with your child.”

  “What?” His response was so loud that others going toward the great hall stopped to look at them.

  “How could that be? I wore a sheath. Your husband?” he asked softly, but hopefully.

  She shook, her teeth chattering with fright, and would not look at him. “I have not been with him for three months. He will never believe a six-month babe. Never!”

  She was near hysterics, but of sadness rather than fright.

  “Come, calm yourself.” He took firm hold on her shaking shoulders and steered her toward her chamber. He knew the way.

  When they were inside, he took her in his arms, her servants quietly slipping away. “Have you thought of . . . well, an abortive? Dr. Dee would help you, if he is at court.”

  “Burn in hell if I abort your son? For so Dee has assured me is the sex of the child by my stars.” She shook in his arms and he damned himself for his words, but Bess could not learn of this, although the word son rang in his head. Bess must never know!

  “Then go to a wise woman for pennyroyal and tansy. If not, you must go home, Douglass, and quickly.”

  “No, no, Robert, I do not want to return there. John will divorce me. There will be a scandal. Her Majesty will be furious with me.”

  Nothing to what she will be with me.

  “What then?” He was weary of trying to please women.

  “I will try for a divorce so that we can marry.”

  He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “That can never be.”

  She began to sob, her pale complexion becoming mottled red and her beautiful eyes swelling. Why did women think tears would bring a man to agreement, when it only made their faces lose their attraction?

  Robert helped her to a chair and knelt in front of her, gently taking her shaking hand, for he truly felt sorrow. “Hear me, Douglass, for I may say this but once.” Even as he said the words, he knew they would need to be repeated many times. “You must know that if I were to marry you, it would result in my utter ruin. I would never regain the queen’s favor and would be completely overthrown.”

  Her voice quavering, she looked full in his face. “You mean that I am nothing to you and the queen, who has ever rejected you, is everything?”

  Robert would have never put it that way for the affection he felt for Douglass, but she was exactly right. He did not want to hurt her, but he had never lied to her or promised her anything but his regard, and she had that. “Go home at once to John Sheffield, your good husband, but know I will ever care for your child . . . and for you.”

  He left her sobbing. There was nothing more he could say or do.

  He required three large glasses of wine to sleep that night.

  Elizabeth did not call for him later, nor all the next day. Although he attended her in council, she looked past him to others for advice as if he weren’t there.

  Bess was deliberately breaking his heart. He knew what Douglass suffered and had known it for much of his life. He answered a message from her after dark and saw her tearfully off to her husband in the north on one of the Howard estates she’d inherited, after the queen had granted her written permission to return to her husband.

  Robert’s dragging footsteps echoed in the halls outside his chamber. He was unsure whether he should retire to Leicester House on the Strand, or stay and face Elizabeth’s anger and probable dismissal.

  Tamworth greeted him outside his door, whispering: “My lord, the queen waits for you in your bedchamber.”

  Robert was suddenly so completely exhausted, he doubted he would be at his best appeasing Bess’s outrage, which must be great indeed if it had brought her to him in private. He slipped quietly into the room, ready to humble himself or accept angry blows . . . anything. But there was no need. The queen of England and Wales
was curled up on his bed, which, praise God, had been freshened this morning. She was fully gowned and bejeweled but apparently asleep. Her breathing was shallow, her eyes tight shut.

  He carried a chair to the bed, sat down and took the hand that trailed over the bedside. Her lids flickered and she sighed.

  “Good night until the morrow, my love,” he whispered.

  “You don’t love her?” It was a whispered question, her eyes still closed.

  “Never. Only you, Bess. Always you.”

  Thus, he knew he was forgiven his interest in Douglass, though he did not think it would last more than six months. Elizabeth had studied mathematics diligently.

  He must win the queen’s hand before that calamity.

  CHAPTER 15

  “What! Shall I so far forget myself as to prefer a poor servant of my own making to the first princes in Christendom?”

  —Elizabeth I to Kat Ashley, who urged her to marry Leicester

  ELIZABETH

  A February midnight, 1573

  Leicester House on the Strand, London

  To the sound of the drummer in the prow,beating time for the oarsmen, a sound Elizabeth usually loved, her foot tapped the deck, but not this night. Tonight, she had enjoyed none of her usual pleasures, not the soft, silken touch of her shifts, not the stiff brocade of her gown and oversleeves, nor the yielding warmth of ermine, a fur that only a queen could wear. This night was not a night for sensual pleasures, but her firm resolve to confront Robin once and for all time. Seven years had passed since their one night together at Rycote. She had steeled herself through the nights of those years, never to repeat the hours when she had come so close to setting aside her throne for love. Tonight, the Earl of Leicester would be a fortunate man, by Jesu, to escape the Tower, or banishment, or at least a tongue-lashing that would bring him to tears.

  The royal barge, its lights glaring into full dark, landed at the ice-covered dock of the Earl of Leicester’s town house across the river from Whitehall. Elizabeth strode ahead of her guard to the earl’s back door, her empty stomach churning. She would bear Rob’s deceptions no longer. He had promised to love and serve her in everything, and by God and all His saints, if Rob had failed her again, she would . . . She clenched her fists inside her ermine muff, forcing her mind away from all it could think and her mouth from what it could say in anger and never recall.