“You cannot know how fervently I wish that.”
“Will you spend the rest of your days behaving like the Queen’s lap-dog, yapping at her heels, cowering from her anger, being taken up and set down at the whim of a moment?”
“Nay!” he said passionately.
She strained herself against him. “Should we not mold our own lives, Robert? Were we not meant to marry, to have children?”
“You are right. We were meant to. But,” he added, “there is Essex.”
She was silent for a while, then she said: “Mean you, my lord, that only Essex stands between our marriage … not the Queen?”
“But for Essex we would marry. We could keep that secret from the Queen.”
She said quietly: “It would have to be a true marriage. My family would insist on that. My sons would be your heirs … nothing less.”
“Nothing less,” he repeated.
“And only Essex is between us and that?”
“Only Essex.”
He thought of the boy whom she had borne Essex—young Robert Devereux—one of the tallest and most beautiful children he had ever seen. Such would his sons be if he married Lettice. He loved Douglass’ boy, but not enough to make Douglass his true wife.
Her next words startled him: “How much do you love me?”
He answered: “Infinitely.”
He knew then that she was thinking of Amy Robsart; and next day, during the water pageant he had planned for the Queen’s delight, he also was thinking of Amy.
Douglass knelt before the Queen. She had never been so frightened in the whole of her life. She had scarcely seen Robert since the Queen had come to Kenilworth. He had paid one visit to her to tell her how she must conduct herself before the Queen. He had been cold, and she had sensed his deep anger; and that anger she knew was directed against herself.
She knew too that he was in love with the Countess of Essex. She had heard it whispered. They could not keep it secret as they would wish; it showed in their faces when they looked at each other. Pray God the Queen did not notice. No one would tell her, for she would not thank the one who did, and that person would gain the eternal enmity of the Earl of Leicester.
And now who knew what questions the Queen would ask of Doug lass, whose mind was not quick and clever. She prayed that she might find the right answers.
The Queen was in a mellow mood. She bade Douglass rise while she studied her closely. Douglass had been a beautiful woman, but the days and nights of strain had left their mark upon her face in dark shadows under her eyes; and an air of drooping melancholy could not be hidden from the Queen.
He may have loved her once, mused Elizabeth, but he no longer does.
“Come, Lady Sheffield, sit beside us. We hear you have been indisposed, and we are sorry.”
“Your Majesty is most gracious.”
“It is a pity indeed that you have missed those pageants which have been prepared for our delight. Our host has surpassed even himself, and we have rarely been so entertained. We hear you had some hand in the arrangements.”
“Oh, no, Your Majesty. My husband was a friend of the Earl’s who graciously gave me permission to rest here while he was at Court. And so did I. I confess that a desire to see Your Majesty made me delay my departure.”
“Well, you have seen me now. I trust you are pleased with the sight. Have I changed since you served at Court?”
“Your Majesty performs the miracle of growing more beautiful with the passing years.”
“You have a charming son.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Named Robert, eh?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“The Earl seems fond of him.”
“The Earl, like Your Majesty, has a fondness for children.”
“That’s so. And the boy is three years old, I hear.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“I remember your husband … Sheffield.”
Elizabeth had the pleasure of watching the flush spread from Douglass’ neck to her brow, and the circumstances seemed clear to her. But she was sure the affair was over, so she was only mildly annoyed; her wicked Robert, she told herself, must be given a little license.
But she must be sure that the affair was over. She would keep the woman where she might see how she behaved in the future.
She said: “Lady Sheffield, I like your manners. You shall join us in our journeyings, and when we return to Court there will be a place for you in the bedchamber.”
Douglass fell to her knees in gratitude. Her joy shone from her eyes. If she were at Court, she would see Robert constantly.
A few days after that interview the royal procession left Kenilworth.
The Queen was thrown into a flutter of excitement by the arrival at Court of Monsieur Simiers, for this energetic little Frenchman came on a romantic mission; he came on behalf of his master, the Duke of Anjou, to ask for the Queen’s hand in marriage.
Elizabeth, certain now that Douglass’ child was also Robert’s, felt the need for a little courtship, and she welcomed Monsieur Simiers graciously.
Very soon the young man became her Monkey (because of his name, she told him, but his features did suggest the name) and he was seen walking with her, riding with her, sitting beside her; in fact he seemed scarcely ever out of her presence. He was practiced in all the arts at which the French excelled—dancing, paying compliments, adoring her with his eyes, hinting that he would barter twenty years of his life if he might be her lover in reality and not as proxy for another.
She bestowed upon him all the favors which she was wont to bestow on others; and his was the cheek which was affectionately tapped, his the arm on which she leaned, his the lips which kissed her hands. Her Monkey put her Eyes, her Lids, and her old Bellwether into the shade.
It was all a little ridiculous for, although she was well over forty, she was behaving like a girl of sixteen—and a frivolous lovesick one at that.
So absorbed was she with her Monkey that she scarcely noticed that the Earl of Essex was back in England and that there seemed to be burning within him a smoldering anger.
When Robert informed her that Essex’s work was not completed in Ireland and that he must therefore be sent back at once, she gave her consent and the Earl went most reluctantly.
Essex had been back in Ireland little more than a month when the news came that he had died of a flux; and there were rumors that his death was not a natural one.
Elizabeth snatched a few moments from the society of her Monkey to discuss this matter with Robert.
“What think you?” she asked. “Doubtless the man had his enemies. I like not these rumors.”
Robert answered: “Rumor must be quashed. There shall be an inquest, and my brother-in-law Sidney, as the Deputy of Ireland, will see that it is carried out in a fitting manner.”
“Let that be done then.”
And it was, for Sir Henry Sidney was able to report that the death of the Earl of Essex was due to natural causes.
Shortly afterward a man who had been closely connected with Essex died similarly. This man had uttered wild words; he had said that a very notable person in England had so urgently wished for the death of my lord of Essex that he had sent his professional poisoners to Ireland to dispatch him; and as those in charge of the inquest had been very near to that notable person, and their fortunes wrapped in his, the matter was not sifted as it might otherwise have been.
But this man was of no standing, and his death did not call for the investigation which had followed that of the Earl of Essex.
Kat, hearing the rumors, was frightened.
The gossip in her longed to disclose to the Queen all she had heard. But Kat loved her royal mistress even more than she loved gossip. The murder of Essex could mean only one thing: Leicester must this time be so deeply in love that he was considering marriage. It was all very well for Elizabeth to flirt with her Monkey, to speak of the charms of her dear Bellwether. Lightly she loved these men; but there
was one whom she truly loved.
If she had married him, reasoned Kat, she would have been happier than she was without him. She would still have been the Queen and he would have had to obey her. She had chosen the wrong man if she expected him meekly to accept a position which was well-nigh intolerable.
She said to Elizabeth when they were alone: “Dearest Majesty, this Monkey and his master … you are not serious?”
“I am.”
“Would you then marry a man so much younger than yourself?”
“Am I so old then? Am I so ugly?”
“You are the youngest lady in the world—but that is in spirit, sweetheart. You are the most beautiful; but he is small and puny; and his skin is pock-marked.”
“How do you know?”
“We have heard it; and even his mother admits he has not the stature of his brother.”
“You meddle, Kat.”
“’Tis because of my love.”
“I know that. But I want no meddling.”
“Darling, why did you not marry him whom you truly love?”
“I know not whom you mean.”
“Ah yes, you do, darling. You have loved him long and he has loved you … and he is the one for you, and you for him.”
“Leicester!” she snapped; and her face hardened.
Was she thinking of Lady Sheffield and her child? wondered Kat. Or had she heard of the greater menace that was to come from the Countess of Essex?
Kat did not know and dared not ask; but she believed that it must be of Lady Sheffield that the Queen was thinking, for she would be less composed if she knew of his liaison with Lettice.
“What!” she cried. “Shall I so far forget myself as to prefer a poor servant of my own making to the first Prince in Christendom?”
Kat shook her head and was filled with sorrow.
“God preserve your Majesty from all unhappiness,” she murmured.
And Elizabeth lifted a hand to pat Kat’s arm affectionately.
Robert was on his way to a meeting with Douglass. He had asked her to come that day to the Close Arbor in the grounds about Greenwich Palace.
He was worried concerning Douglass, who was becoming hysterical now that she guessed something of his plans regarding Lettice. Douglass had a post in the Queen’s bedchamber and that was a highly dangerous situation, since it brought her into close contact with the Queen.
He had made up his mind.
He had heard of Elizabeth’s words to Kat Ashley; and he was sure now that, for many years, she had had no intention of marrying. Perhaps if he had never married Amy, if he had been free when they were both young, there would have been a different story to tell. But it was too late to think of that. He wanted children. He thought often of all the fine young men about the Court today who were the sons of his contemporaries. There were boys like Philip and Robert Sidney, and Bacon’s son Francis; there was Lettice’s own son Robert Devereux, since his father’s death, the Earl of Essex; and even Burghley’s son, young Robert Cecil, though humpbacked and far from prepossessing, was a son. The Queen was fond of him in spite of his lack of beauty, and this was not only because he was his father’s son; his keen wits and alert intelligence made him a son of whom to be proud; even the Queen, who could not tolerate ugliness, had a fondness for him and had christened him her Pigmy. And he, Robert, had no legitimate son! Come what may, he had decided to marry Lettice.
Accompanying him to this tryst with Douglass were a few of his trusted servants, those whose fortunes were so closely bound with his own that they dared not betray him even if they wished to do so.
Douglass was waiting for him.
He posted several of his men outside the Close Arbor that he might be warned of the approach of any whom he would not wish to witness this meeting between himself and Douglass.
She was pale and trembling.
He smiled kindly at her and, laying his hand on her shoulder, said: “You must not be afraid, Douglass. As you know, I have long both loved and liked you. I have always found that earnest and faithful affection in you which has bound me greatly to you. Douglass, that still exists, does it not?”
“It does,” she answered.
“But I made clear, did I not, on my first coming to you, in what sort my good will should and must always remain to you? It seemed to me that you were fully disposed to accept this.”
“It was before the child was born,” she said.
“But I had made my meaning clear ere that time. Had I not told you that I was not free to marry, that if I did and the Queen should hear of it, I were undone, disgraced, and cast out of favor forever?”
“Yes, but that was before the child came … and we were married.”
“It was no true marriage, Douglass. It was entered into for the sake of your peace of mind. You have no claim on me, but I will give you seven hundred pounds a year if you will disclaim that false ceremony and forget that it happened.”
“I could not do it.”
“You must,” he insisted.
“I must think of my son. Shall he face the world as a bastard?”
“We must all face the world as we are, my dear. Have no fear as to his future. I will watch him as carefully and with as much love and affection as though he were my legitimate son.”
“I cannot. I cannot. I believe he is your legitimate son. He is your heir.”
“Think over what I have said. Take the money I offer. Accept my good services for your son; for if you do not, what good can come to yourself and to him? I should never see you again and you would have no money from me. But take this income; admit there was no marriage; and all will go well with you and with him.”
She shook her head and began to weep as he took his leave of her.
Douglass lay on her bed. Her women stood round her. She had long lain staring at the tester, and those about her feared for her sanity.
One of her maids, who had been with her since she was a child, had wept bitterly when she had witnessed her mistress’s infatuation for the Earl of Leicester.
Now this good servant dismissed the women and sat by her mistress’s bed, quietly watching her; and when she saw that the tears had started to flow down Douglass’s cheeks she came nearer and said quietly: “Dearest mistress, do as he asks. It is the only way. Remember Amy Robsart … and remember what has recently befallen a gentleman in Ireland.”
Douglass did not answer her but asked that her child be brought to her.
The boy knelt on the bed and asked her why she was so sad; but she merely shook her head and said: “It will pass.”
“I know of one who could make you happy,” he said. “I will find him and bring him to you.”
Wearily she shook her head.
“But you are always happy when the great Earl comes to see you … and so am I!”
She looked at him sadly and, drawing him to her, she kissed him.
“You and I will be happy together, my darling,” she said at last.
But she seemed to hear a voice warning her: “Be wise. Remember Amy Robsart!”
Robert and Lettice were married at Kenilworth that summer. They were reckless, both of them; yet they strove to keep their secret from the Queen.
Lettice’s family heard what had happened, and insisted that the ceremony be repeated under their auspices at their house in Wanstead. They were not going to see their daughter in the position of poor Douglass Howard.
The Knollys family had been greatly disturbed when they heard of their daughter’s infatuation, and at the lengths to which it had carried her and the Earl. No one in the kingdom believed Robert guiltless of the murder of his first wife, and now the name of Essex was added to his victims. Rumors concerning him had multiplied, and yet, oddly enough, the news of the marriage had so far not reached the Queen.
But when Lettice’s family had assured themselves that Robert could not repudiate the marriage even if he wished to do so, and when they considered his power and his Protestant leanings, they realized
the great advantages which could accrue from a connection between their house and his.
Philip of Spain had carried his persecution too far when he had set up the Inquisition in the Netherlands. William the Silent was leading his people against the tyranny and fanatical cruelties of the Spaniards. It was more than a local struggle. It was a world-wide struggle between Protestants and Catholics; and the Knollys’s—that great Protestant family—wished to see England join in the struggle; they held, as did many statesmen, that the Queen’s aversion from war might lead the country to disaster, and that refusal to join the smaller conflict with friends might leave her to face a greater one alone. If Spain were victorious in the Netherlands, undoubtedly Philip’s savage fanaticism would be turned against the greatest stronghold of Protestantism in the world, which was England.
The Protestant Party must stand firm and strengthen itself in every way possible; and, in marrying a daughter of the foremost Protestant house, it was considered that Robert had abandoned his lukewarm profession of Protestantism and was now its staunch ally. Robert’s nephew, Philip Sidney, had married the daughter of another great Protestant, Sir Francis Walsingham. So now, as one of the greatest statesmen of the day, by his marriage with Lettice Robert found himself looked upon as the leader of the Protestant Party. And the Protestant Party opposed the Queen’s marriage with the Duke of Anjou.
Meanwhile Elizabeth continued to flirt with her Monkey, who was becoming more and more impatient with the passing of every day.
Would not Her Majesty allow him to bring her the marriage contracts? he was continually asking. His master was well-nigh sick with love of her.
She became perverse, as she always was when matters were being driven toward a conclusion.
“Dear Monkey,” she said, “I could not decide on marrying a man whom I have not seen.”
“Madame, I assure you he is the most handsome Prince in Christendom.”
“We have heard views to the contrary.”
“If he lacks a little in stature, he makes up for it in the bigness of his heart, Your Majesty.”
“But those pock-marks! I think of them often.”
“Now that his beard has grown, they are scarcely visible.”
A Favorite of the Queen: The Story of Lord Robert Dudley and Elizabeth 1 Page 30