The Queen's Favourite

by Laura Dowers

  ‘What’s the matter with his wife?’ There was no trace of concern in her voice.

  ‘He did not say in his letter, madam but I have told him he may take the three days. I trust I was right to do so?’

  ‘Yes, perfectly right.’ Elizabeth seemed annoyed. ‘His duty to his wife must come before his duty to me. What’s next?’

  Cecil passed a paper across the table. ‘This is a list of names suggested by your council as possible suitors for your hand, madam.’

  Elizabeth read. ‘Sir William Pickering, the Earl of Arundel, the Earl of Arran, King Eric of Sweden and ... King Philip of Spain.’ She looked up at Cecil. ‘He is my brother-in-law!’

  ‘Dispensations for consanguinity can be obtained, madam,’ Cecil replied, refusing to apologise for the inclusion of Philip’s name.

  She grunted doubtfully. ‘Sir William Pickering, I already know. He is much older than me, Cecil.’

  ‘But a very sensible man, Your Majesty.’

  ‘These others, will any of them come to England so I may see them?’

  Cecil tried hard not to appear shocked by her question. What was Elizabeth thinking? That her suitors would parade before her so that she could look them over to see if one took her fancy? Some of these men were princes, for heaven’s sake. ‘I don’t believe that would be possible, madam. We could request likenesses if you wish to see their faces.’

  ‘I have no intention of marrying a man I have not set eyes upon, Cecil. I do not want to start a marriage with that kind of disappointment.’

  ‘There are other virtues besides a handsome face, madam. The nobility of princes –.’ He broke off as he noticed Elizabeth scowl. ‘I shall request likenesses.’ He began shuffling once more through his documents.

  ‘Enough,’ Elizabeth said, slapping her hand on the desk. ‘No more work. I’m getting a headache. I’ve been inside for too long.’

  Cecil stifled a protest. ‘Shall I send for your Ladies, madam?’

  ‘Yes, I will go riding.’ She rose and moved to the window. ‘I don’t need Robert,’ she told herself under her breath. ‘I do not need him.’

  14

  Whitehall Palace, London, April 1559

  Robert leaned over the pommel of his saddle and stroked Mirabelle’s neck. ‘I hope you’ve been looking after my horses, Samuel.’

  ‘I have, my lord,’ Samuel replied proudly. ‘But they’ve missed you, that I will say.’

  ‘I’m told the queen is out riding.’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’

  ‘Which way did she ride out?’

  ‘Towards the lake, my lord.’

  ‘Who was with her?’

  ‘Some of her Ladies, the Lady Mary Sidney amongst them for certain. And Sir William Pickering.’

  ‘Pickering?’ Robert frowned. ‘He hates horses.’

  ‘The queen commanded it, my lord,’ Samuel grinned. ‘He didn’t look too happy about going.’

  Robert nudged Mirabelle’s sides and rode off towards the lake. Ten minutes later, he saw the queen’s party by a clump of trees and he cantered up to them.

  Elizabeth was wearing a green riding habit which showed off her red hair. He was thinking how handsome she looked until that thought was shunted from his head by the stare that Elizabeth turned on him.

  ‘Your Majesty,’ he greeted her with an uncertain smile.

  ‘Why, Lord Robert!’ Elizabeth replied with affected good humour. ‘How good of you to return to Court.’

  ‘My duty lies here, madam,’ he answered.

  Elizabeth brought her horse alongside his. ‘I assume your wife is better now, as she has allowed you to leave her side?’

  ‘She is more settled in her mind than she was.’

  ‘Well, that is something. Perhaps now your duties as my Master of the Horse can be attended to.’

  ‘I trust you have not been neglected in my absence, Your Majesty?’

  ‘Not at all. Sir William Pickering has kept me most happily entertained.’

  Sir William Pickering, keeping his seat with some difficulty, managed to project a proud smile at Robert.

  ‘I’m glad,’ Robert said, even as Elizabeth moved away. He had been wrong to stay away, he realised. Elizabeth thought he wasn’t dedicated to his position. Maybe she was even considering giving the Horse to someone else. Damn Amy!

  ‘Rob?’

  He jerked in surprise as someone touched his arm. ‘Oh, Mary, it’s you.’

  ‘I startled you.’

  ‘I was thinking. Mary, has the queen said anything about me while I’ve been away?’

  Mary brushed a strand of hair away from her cheek. ‘In private, she has spoken of you often. Too often, to my mind.’

  Robert looked sharply at her. ‘What do you mean by that?’

  Mary hesitated. ‘I think you should be careful, Rob.’

  ‘Of Elizabeth? Is she displeased with me, Mary? Has my being away longer than planned angered her?’

  ‘Oh, how can you be so blind? She cares for you, Rob.’

  ‘Of course she cares for me -’

  ‘More than a Queen should care for a subject. More than a friend.’

  Robert stared at her. ‘You don’t mean -’

  ‘Yes, I do mean. She’s in love with you, Rob. That’s why she’s so annoyed.’

  ‘She’s in love with me, so that’s why she’s angry with me?’ Robert asked, thoroughly confused.

  Mary groaned in exasperation. ‘You’ve been spending time with Amy instead of her. She’s jealous.’

  Robert said nothing, his mind busy.

  ‘So, what was wrong with Amy?’ Mary asked.

  ‘Apart from the usual complaints, you mean? She has a pain in her left breast, and a lump. I sent for the physician.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He said it could be a tumour.’

  ‘She’s in pain?’

  ‘A little, yes.’

  ‘Poor Amy. But should you not have brought her back with you?’

  ‘I can’t do that, Mary. Elizabeth won’t have wives at Court unless they’re in service to her.’

  ‘But, if she knows how ill Amy is -’

  ‘Oh, talk sense, Mary. If, as you seem to think, Elizabeth loves me, she won’t want my wife here spying on us.’

  ‘Spying on you?’ Mary repeated incredulously. ‘Robert, your behaviour with the queen can be nothing other than honourable, or her reputation will be ruined. She cannot marry you, so she must not love you. What do you think, that you can lie with her?’

  ‘For Jesu’s sake, keep your voice down,’ he hissed at her. ‘Spying was the wrong word. I didn’t mean it.’

  ‘I think you meant exactly that. My God, Rob, there are times when you disgust me. You don’t care about Amy at all.’ She snapped her whip against her horse’s rump and sped away after the queen.

  Robert barely noticed she had left him. Was she right? Could Elizabeth be in love with him? He searched his memory. That night in the Tower, when they had sat before Brydges’s fire and shared their fears. The times since her accession when they had laughed together, gone riding together, danced. Her flushed cheeks as he held her during a dance, the holding of his hand just that moment longer than necessary as he helped her mount her horse. Other little intimacies too numerous to even catalogue. Good God, how could he have been so blind? Had he been so caught up in his new work, so eager to make a success of it, that he hadn’t noticed the signs? Elizabeth, the queen, was in love with him!

  15

  Whitehall Palace, London, October 1559

  Cecil clasped his hands behind his back and fixed his impatience behind an expression of polite attention. ‘You wanted to see me, Your Grace.’

  Norfolk was polishing a dagger, his full mouth pursing as he stroked the cloth along the blade. ‘Yes, I did.’ He set the dagger down and looked up, his brow creased in a frown. ‘Tell me, Cecil, how long are you going to allow this to go on?’

  Cecil stifled a breath of irritation. ‘Forgive me, Your Grac
e, but allow what to go on?’

  ‘The damned Gypsy.’

  ‘Ah,’ Cecil nodded, understanding. ‘I believe you mean Lord Robert Dudley.’ He had heard the nickname going around the court. He suspected that Norfolk had coined the term, as a slur on Dudley’s dark skin and also for the reputation of gypsies as pickers-up of anything they could get their hands on.

  ‘Yes, I do mean Lord Robert Dudley. Did you see that display tonight?’

  ‘The dancing, Your Grace?’ Cecil was prevaricating, but he knew exactly what Norfolk was getting at. The queen and Dudley had danced together practically all evening, their bodies moving closer with each measure.

  ‘Dancing? Is that what you call it? They may as well have fucked right there on the floor.’

  ‘Really, Your Grace,’ Cecil admonished, his cheeks reddening.

  Norfolk stood, his hands on his hips. ‘Well, you may not care what everyone is saying, but I don’t want this court made the laughing stock of Europe. He’s her bloody stable-boy, for Christ’s sake.’

  ‘Master of the Horse, Your Grace,’ Cecil corrected with a wry smile.

  ‘He’s a Dudley,’ Norfolk said, his voice growing louder with annoyance. ‘When is she going to understand the kind of man he is?’

  ‘And what kind would that be?’

  ‘He’s a traitor. He comes of tainted stock.’

  ‘In truth, Your Grace, I am inclined to agree with you. The queen does, in my opinion, act with little discretion in her relationship with Lord Robert. But,’ he shrugged helplessly, ‘I am at a loss to see what I can do about it.’

  ‘Well, can’t he be got rid of? Some way or the other?’

  Norfolk had always been a brute. Cecil smiled politely. ‘An assassination, Your Grace? He’s hardly worth such an endeavour, surely?’

  ‘I’d stick a dagger in him myself if I thought he was worth the trouble.’

  Or worth the risk to your neck, Cecil thought. ‘Perhaps the queen will grow tired of him, Your Grace. He has but a handsome exterior to recommend him.’

  ‘I agree, the man has no nobility, but what does that matter to this queen? She likes handsome men, doesn’t she, Cecil? You remember Thomas Seymour?’

  Cecil held up a warning hand. ‘Your Grace, the queen’s involvement with him was never proven. She was but a child at the time.’

  Norfolk leered unpleasantly. ‘Oh, come now, Cecil, we both knew old Thomas. He couldn’t walk past a woman without trying to get beneath her skirts.’

  ‘Perhaps so, but I think it would be wise not to mention the late Lord Admiral, Your Grace, to the queen or anyone else for that matter. He is a part of her history I believe she would not care to be reminded of.’

  Norfolk pouted and fell back into his chair. He snatched up the dagger once more. ‘Well, then, let’s hope she doesn’t allow the Gypsy the same freedom as poor dead Thomas. Or it might be more than a maidenhead that is lost.’

  16

  Whitehall Palace, London, March 1560

  Cecil had managed to avoid looking again at the letter. There it lay, on the furthest corner of his desk, occasionally getting covered by other paper during the course of the day, but always a sliver of white showed through to remind him that it was there.

  But now he had no excuse. The work of the day was completed, his clerks had been sent away, and the letter just had to be dealt with. He rubbed his chin, enjoying the rasping sensation as his fingers crushed his short beard. With a resigned sigh, he picked up the letter and re-read the words that had so disturbed him earlier.

  ‘The queen’s behaviour with Lord Robert Dudley has become the scandal of the French Court’ Sir Nicholas Throckmorton wrote in his usual abrupt manner. ‘There is talk of Her Majesty visiting Lord Robert in his bedchamber, and he visits her while she undresses, and other such that I shrink to commit to paper. I myself cannot believe these rumours to be true, but the injury they do to Her Majesty’s reputation is undeniable. Good sir, you have the queen’s trust. Cannot you persuade her to amend her favour towards Lord Robert, whose reputation here in France and the rest of Europe is near as black his heart?’

  Nicholas was a good man, unwilling to believe the gossip, but he wasn’t at court. The gossip was true. Was this what he had waited for? The girl, whose friendship and trust he had cultivated over many years, who had sought his advice, who had said that she knew him to be honourable and true! Was this the reason she had wanted the crown, so she could be free to sport with a married man of dubious reputation? Was this to be his reward? When he had struggled to find amongst her mutinous bishops, one man who was prepared to crown her, and what persuading he had to do to get Bishop Oglethorpe to agree! When he was even now negotiating with the crowned heads of Europe to find suitable contenders for her hand. Would there be any takers for a queen who was behaving like any common bawd from the Southwark stews?

  He re-folded the letter, his fingernail rhythmically tapping the broken red seal. Norfolk had been right, he realised. Something would have to be done about the Gypsy.

  17

  Greenwich Palace, London, May 1560

  ‘She’s like a hobgoblin, sitting there.’ Robert glanced over his shoulder and smiled at Kat Ashley, ensconced on a seat in the far corner of the box garden.

  Elizabeth slapped his hand playfully. ‘Don’t be cruel. Kat’s there for my protection.’

  ‘From me?’

  ‘Yes, from you. She thinks you have designs on my honour.’ She gave a girlish laugh, but stopped when she realised Robert wasn’t laughing too. ‘What is it?’

  He shrugged sulkily. ‘Dishonour seems to follow me around.’

  ‘How very melodramatic you sound.’

  ‘You think I don’t know what’s being said about me? The Gypsy?’ The look he gave Elizabeth dared her to deny she had heard it too.

  ‘It’s only name-calling, Rob.’

  ‘Well, it hurts, Bess. Especially when what’s being said involves you. Oh, don’t pretend you haven’t heard the gossip. Why else the hobgoblin?’

  ‘Gossip. That’s all it is. You and I know the truth.’

  ‘No, we don’t. I don’t know if you care for me.’

  ‘Oh, Robin, how can you not know?’ She reached out and stroked his cheek. ‘Of course I care for you.’

  ‘Yes, but how much?’ he asked earnestly, grasping her hands and holding them to his chest.

  She hesitated before answering. ‘Rob, you are married.’

  Robert let out a breath of exasperation. ‘Oh, it’s always ‘Rob, you’re married’. I damn well know I’m married. Do you think I could forget it?’

  ‘I think you’d like to,’ Elizabeth retorted. ‘I know what you want.’

  ‘What do I want?’

  ‘You want to lie with me.’

  ‘You can’t blame me for that.’

  ‘I do blame you. Why can’t you be content with what we have?’

  ‘We have nothing,’ he spat through gritted teeth. ‘I’m your Gypsy, the pampered pet you like to have following you around. I command no respect.’

  ‘You’re my Master of Horse.’

  ‘Your stable-boy, as Norfolk puts it.’ He took her hand. Lowering her voice, he said, ‘Elizabeth, Amy is ill. She has a cancer in her breast. The physician says it’s unlikely she will get better.’

  ‘Rob –’

  ‘No, let me finish. I sound callous, I know, as if I don’t care for her. I do, I do care for her, Bess.’

  ‘Care?’ she scoffed. ‘She’s your wife, you’re supposed to love her.’

  ‘I can’t say love, Bess, not any more. All that time apart when I was imprisoned, all that I lost then. It’s difficult to explain. She couldn’t understand what I had suffered. She wanted to pretend nothing had happened. She wouldn’t let me talk about my family – I suppose she thought it might upset me. But it upset me more not being allowed to remember them, as if they meant nothing. If I even mentioned Father or my brothers, she would change the subject and start talking abou
t other things, her clothes or her bloody embroidery. I hated her when she did that.’

  ‘So, you’re just waiting for her to die and then...what? You think you and I can marry?’

  ‘Well... couldn’t we?’

  Elizabeth’s heart beat faster. ‘I...no...I don’t know. You mustn’t ask me.’

  ‘Well, maybe I should just go back to Norfolk. Back home to Amy.’

  ‘You can’t leave. I won’t let you.’

  ‘Well, there’s nothing for me to stay for is there?’ he shouted, not caring who heard.

  ‘Rob!’ she shushed, shaking her head at Kat who was in the process of rising. ‘What do you want from me?’

  ‘I want what Thomas Seymour got!’

  Elizabeth stared at him, stunned. ‘You believe that about me?’

  He snapped off a leaf from the hedge and crushed it between his fingers. ‘Everyone believes it.’

  ‘It’s not true. Robin, I tell you, it’s not true. I never lay with him. I was but fourteen years old.’

  ‘It’s said you had a child by him.’

  ‘I am still a maid.’ She went to him and touched his arm. ‘You do believe me, Rob?’

  ‘You promise?’

  ‘I swear it.’

  He pulled her to him and kissed her forehead. ‘Then I believe you.’

  ‘I can’t lie with you, Rob,’ she said, almost apologetically. ‘If I were to have a child –’

  ‘It wouldn’t matter if we were married.’

  ‘I can’t marry you, Rob. I’m a queen, I have to marry someone of noble birth.’

  ‘Oh, I see. I’m not high enough for you.’

  ‘No, forgive me, but you’re not.’

  ‘My father was a duke, Bess.’

  ‘And he lost that title, Rob.’

  ‘Then give me another one,’ he suggested with a laugh.

  She smoothed down her skirts. ‘Not just yet. I show you too much favour as it is.’

  Robert didn’t press the matter. ‘So, who are the prospective bridegrooms at the moment?’