The Queen's Favourite

by Laura Dowers

  ‘Your sister had no such fears with her husband, Your Majesty,’ Henry pointed out.

  ‘And remember how that turned out,’ Elizabeth snapped. She turned to Robert. ‘I will have here but one mistress and no master. Remember that, my lord.’

  Robert nodded, his courtier’s nod which hid the disappointment he felt. For he was beginning to believe that Elizabeth meant every word she said.

  25

  Whitehall Palace, London, March 1562

  Cecil waited until the other councillors had filed out and the door had closed. Then he looked at Elizabeth and licked his dry lips thoughtfully.

  ‘What is it?’ Elizabeth asked, her eyes narrowing in curiosity.

  ‘I wanted to speak to you, in private, about Mary Stuart.’

  Elizabeth grunted. Her cousin was the last thing she wanted to talk about.

  ‘Have you had any thoughts on who she should marry?’ Cecil continued.

  ‘Marry?’ Elizabeth said. ‘Cecil, she’s only just been widowed. Her husband is hardly cold in his grave.’

  ‘Nevertheless, madam, if Mary Stuart isn’t considering her next husband, then her Guise uncles will be. I have received intelligence from Sir Nicholas Throckmorton. You are aware of the animosity between Mary Stuart and the queen mother, Catherine de Medici. It is believed that Catherine will not allow Mary to stay in France. If that should be the case and she doesn’t marry soon, Scotland will be the only place Mary Stuart can go.’

  ‘Well, it is her country, Cecil. Why should it concern me if she is there?’

  ‘Madam, she is a Catholic.’

  ‘But Scotland is mostly Protestant. Her half-brother, James, takes our money to keep it so.’

  ‘Indeed, but he is a bastard and ineligible to rule. Of course, he would hope that Mary would merely be the figurehead of Scotland, with himself in actual charge. But, I hear, she is strong-willed and may choose to be a queen in more than name. That would be a pity. James is an able man. If James were to lose his position of power, it could cause trouble for us.’

  ‘She is a Queen, Cecil. She has a right to rule.’

  Cecil’s face twitched. ‘Indeed she does. But not all monarchs have the ability to rule. If I may say so, madam, Mary Stuart is not Elizabeth Tudor.’

  Elizabeth’s eyes softened. ‘Have you turned flatterer, Cecil?’ she asked with a smile.

  ‘It is not flattery to speak the truth, madam. Bear in mind, Mary Stuart has a personal allegiance to France and a religious allegiance with Spain. And if she were to choose a husband not inclined towards friendship with England –’

  ‘Yes, yes, I understand,’ Elizabeth waved her hand at him impatiently. ‘You want me to suggest a husband to her? Why would she pay attention to anything I say? She has already shown herself careless of my feelings. Does she not lay claim to my throne?’

  ‘She does indeed maintain that position, madam, but has not the power or support to enforce it. But she may also have need of your goodwill. To get to Scotland, she will need to pass through English waters. You could withhold permission for her to do so, forcing her to take a different, perhaps more dangerous, passage.’

  ‘Good idea,’ Elizabeth said, impressed. ‘If she intends to return to Scotland, I will withhold permission. She can go the long way round.’

  ‘And a husband, madam?’ Cecil prompted.

  ‘You have someone in mind, Cecil?’

  Cecil coughed nervously. ‘I was thinking, just perhaps, of Lord Robert Dudley.’

  Elizabeth stared at him. She couldn’t speak. She was stunned. Had Cecil just suggested Robin marry Mary Stuart?

  ‘Consider the advantages of such a match,’ Cecil continued quietly. ‘Lord Robert is a great friend to you, and therefore to England. He is a Protestant. He is ambitious and such a match would raise him very high indeed. The only issue would be if ...’ he paused and took a deep breath, ‘if you could not bear to lose him.’

  Elizabeth’s mouth tightened. She smacked her hand down on the table angrily and rose, striding across to the window. Cecil got to his feet, tasting sweat on his upper lip, and waited. He could see the tension in her shoulders as she leant on the windowsill and stared out into the gardens.

  She slowly turned to him. ‘Robin would never agree.’

  ‘If you ordered it, madam, how could he refuse?’

  ‘There must be other possibilities. Is she not supposed to be beautiful?’ Elizabeth sneered. ‘There must be plenty of princes across Europe eager to wed her.’

  ‘None that would be so advantageous to England, madam. And is Lord Robert not a handsome man?’

  ‘The most handsome,’ Elizabeth could not help but smile. ‘Does Mary like handsome men, Cecil?’

  ‘What woman doesn’t?’

  Elizabeth shot him a sharp look. ‘I shall have to think about this, Cecil. Say nothing to anyone for the moment.’

  ‘Of course not, madam. You will consider it then?’

  ‘I’ve said I will, haven’t I? But I will not be hurried into anything. Mary can marry no one until her mourning is over. There is plenty of time to consider husbands for my dear cousin.’

  Cecil gathered up his papers and left the council chamber, leaving Elizabeth alone.

  It was an outrageous suggestion. How could she let that woman get her hands on Robin? She pictured Robert in Mary’s bed, Mary enjoying him as she, Elizabeth, had never dared to do. Oh God, it hurt to imagine such things. But then, she admitted, there was security in the idea, for England and for her personally. Oh, Cecil, you clever man. In one stroke, you could secure Scotland as an ally for England, tame a dangerous Catholic queen and rid yourself of a nuisance rival. Elizabeth had to admire Cecil for his ingenuity.

  26

  Hampton Court, Surrey, April 1562

  ‘Oh, have pity on me, Rob, and sit down.’ Elizabeth rubbed her eyes as there came another stab of pain. God’s Death, how they ached tonight! And Robert would keep fidgeting.

  ‘But Elizabeth,’ he continued, heedless of her discomfort, ‘they are Protestants. The Huguenots are being persecuted in France for their religion, a religion this country shares. If we do not answer the appeal of the Huguenots –’

  ‘I don’t care about the Huguenots. Let the French go hang themselves. Why are men always so eager to go to war?’

  ‘We can’t ignore them, Bess. If the Catholics were to gain the upper hand –’

  ‘So, what then?’

  ‘Then the balance of power in Europe would be heavily in favour of the Papists. And England could face a joint French and Spanish alliance.’

  Robert was trying to frighten her into action, she knew, but Elizabeth was too tired to think.

  ‘And if we aid them,’ Robert continued, ‘they have promised to cede to us the port of Newhaven. Think of it, Bess, a port in France once again. We haven’t had one since Calais was lost.’

  ‘I know, and how did we lose that?’ Elizabeth said testily. ‘By my sister, Mary, embroiling us in a foreign war, urged on her by men.’

  ‘That was an ill-advised expedition. The gains this time would far outweigh the risks. And once we have Newhaven –’

  ‘If we win.’

  ‘Yes, if we win,’ Robert conceded, ‘and then we may even be able to reclaim Calais.’

  ‘Cecil would prefer to act as intermediary between the Huguenots and Guises. Bring them to a reconciliation.’

  ‘I imagine Cecil would. He is nothing if not cautious. But it would be wrong, Bess. Ask your council.’

  ‘Oh, is there any need?’ Elizabeth asked, raising her eyebrows. ‘I thought you had already been canvassing their opinions.’

  He smiled, half-embarrassed at being caught out. ‘Well, I wanted to ensure my argument had support.’

  ‘You don’t have enough support, Rob. I’m not deciding anything yet.’

  He took her hand, meaning to try and persuade her with sweet words and kisses. Closer than he had been all evening, he saw now that she looked quite ill. Her cheeks
and forehead were flushed and blotchy, her eyes bloodshot and sweat shined on her top lip.

  ‘Bess, are you ill?’

  ‘I’m tired. I want to go to bed and you keep me talking.’

  ‘Well, then, let’s get you to bed.’

  ‘Oh, Rob, go away,’ she said feebly.

  ‘I will not.’ He took hold of her arms and pulled her up from the chair. Even as he held her, Robert felt her strength fall away. She fell against him and he struggled to hold her upright.

  ‘Guard,’ he yelled over his shoulder. Two Yeoman Warders rushed in, their halberds lowered and pointing at Robert. ‘The queen has fainted,’ he explained quickly. ‘Help me get her to the bed.’

  One of the guards dropped his halberd noisily on the floor and took hold of Elizabeth’s legs. Between them, they managed to lay her on the bed.

  Her Ladies were beginning to come in from the antechamber, clustering around her prone body. Robert ordered one of them to fetch the queen’s doctor before he was shooed out of the room by Kat Ashley.

  27

  Hampton Court, Surrey, The same night

  Robert ran a hand over his face. ‘For God’s sake, how long does it take to find out what’s wrong with her?’

  ‘Doctor Burcot is a fine physician,’ Cecil said, distractedly tapping a quill against upon the council table.

  ‘He had better be.’

  ‘There is an outbreak of smallpox in London. I understand two boys from the kitchens succumbed only yesterday.’

  ‘Smallpox? Please, God, not that.’

  ‘I know. The disfigurement can be terrible. If the patient survives at all, that is.’

  They glanced at each other, both considering the possibility of Elizabeth’s death, and the awful consequences.

  Then Mary entered the room.

  ‘What news?’ Robert demanded, jumping up from his chair.

  ‘Doctor Burcot says it’s smallpox,’ Mary said. ‘The queen woke shortly after you left, and when the doctor told her she had smallpox, she grew so angry, she shouted at him to get out. The Earl of Sussex had to drag him back.’

  ‘I must see her.’ Robert headed for the door.

  ‘She’s asleep again,’ Mary grabbed his arm. ‘And besides, you don’t want to catch it.’

  ‘I won’t catch it, I don’t catch anything. And I don’t care if she’s asleep. I want to be with her.’

  Mary nodded wearily, seeing it would be pointless to argue further. ‘Come with me then.’

  Elizabeth lay in her bed, eyes closed, mouth hanging open, hair clinging to her sweat dampened forehead and neck.

  Mary pulled a chair to the side of the bed and pointed Robert to it. He sat, finding Elizabeth’s hand between the folds of the red flannel blanket she was wrapped in and pressed her clammy fingers around his.

  ‘I’m here, Bess,’ he whispered. ‘I’m here.’

  28

  Hampton Court, Surrey, April 1562

  Elizabeth slipped in and out of consciousness for days. Robert stayed by her side. When eventually he was persuaded to retire to his room to sleep, Elizabeth, perversely, awoke. She thought she was dying. She had the council brought into her bedchamber and once they were all assembled, declared to them that Robert Dudley should be made Protector of the Realm in the event of her death. No one wanted to argue with a dying queen, so they all murmured their agreement, whilst giving each other uneasy looks. Dudley as Protector! Preposterous.

  But then, Elizabeth had rallied. And when Robert heard what Elizabeth had said, he experienced strange and conflicting emotions. He felt great happiness that Elizabeth was recovering and yet strange disappointment that he would not get to be Protector, however remote that possibility had been.

  Mary Sidney had no reason to rejoice however. Elizabeth, by some miracle (or witchcraft, some murmured) had escaped the horrific disfigurement that smallpox could inflict but Mary caught the disease. She too survived, but her face, which had once been so very pretty, was now painful to look upon, so altered and ugly had it become. She could not bear the embarrassed glances of people who didn’t know where to look nor their expressions of sympathy. She retired to her house at Penshurst.

  29

  Greenwich Palace, London, October 1562

  Cecil rubbed his nose, leaving a smudge of ink upon its tip. ‘Lord Robert has once again petitioned the council to send men to Newhaven, Your Majesty.’

  Elizabeth took up the paper upon which Robert had detailed the advantages and disadvantages of a campaign against the French in support of the Protestant Huguenots and which he had presented to the council earlier that morning. Despite herself, she smiled at his assiduousness. ‘He is proving a most energetic councillor.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Cecil agreed regretfully. Since Elizabeth had made Robert a councillor, Cecil had not had a moment of uncontested control over the Privy Council. Robert, and the Duke of Norfolk who had been made a Privy Councillor at the same time, were either too high in rank or too close to the queen to be ignored. ‘Shall I tell him the answer is once again No?’

  Elizabeth smiled ruefully at him. ‘I believe this time I must say Yes, Cecil.’

  ‘Your Majesty?’ Cecil asked, not quite believing he had heard correctly.

  ‘I know you are of my mind that wars are costly businesses, but Lord Robert has been most persuasive.’ She pointed to Robert’s list. ‘And thorough. Two ports in France would benefit England greatly and, in truth, I am inclined to help our Protestant cousins. And Robert is not the only one pressing me to act. My good Sir Nicholas in France urges me to it almost daily.’

  ‘Yes, I’m aware he has written. Well, madam, if you are indeed resolved to act, then I shall begin with the preparations. But I do have one question. Who is to head the expedition? I know Lord Robert believes he should lead it, as the Huguenots have been appealing to him directly.’

  Elizabeth nodded. ‘Yes, well, Robert is going to have to be disappointed. I will not be sending him.’

  ‘He will be very disappointed, madam,’ Cecil said, trying not to smile.

  ‘His brother can go instead. Now that I have ennobled Ambrose, it is proper that he should. And that way the Dudley name will be represented.’

  Cecil made a note. ‘Ambrose Dudley, the Earl of Warwick, to head the army.’

  ‘Is that all?’ Elizabeth asked with a sigh. ‘Lord Robert is waiting for me to ride.’

  ‘Yes, that is all for the moment, madam. I shall let Lord Robert know of your decision.’

  ‘No, I shall tell him myself,’ Elizabeth said, getting to her feet and waving him to sit still. ‘He will be petulant and argumentative, no doubt, and I, like a mother, must soothe and comfort him. That’s not a role for you, Cecil.’

  Cecil smiled gratefully.

  ‘Rob, stop.’ Elizabeth reined in her horse and waited for him to come back to her.

  ‘Tired already?’ he asked, looking at her horse, not her.

  ‘No, but I don’t want you sulking all day. Walk on,’ she nudged her horse’s sides. ‘I know you’re disappointed, but I really can’t let you go. Ambrose will do well, I’m sure.’

  ‘Of course he will.’

  ‘Good. So take that look off your face.’

  Robert knew he was being childish and he made an effort to improve his temper. ‘Sorry,’ he mumbled.

  ‘Well, I hope this will make you feel better. You remember Kenilworth?’

  ‘Yes. It’s a castle up in Warwickshire. It belonged to my father for a short while.’

  ‘Well, now it’s yours.’ She gave him a sideways glance and was gratified to see a growing look of astonishment cross his face. ‘I’m giving you Kenilworth.’

  ‘Oh, Bess.’

  ‘It will need a lot of work. I hear it’s almost a ruin.’

  ‘I don’t care,’ he said eagerly, ‘I’ll rebuild it.’

  ‘It might be cheaper and easier to build new, you know. That’s what Cecil’s doing with his house.’

  ‘No, not for me. I like
to keep the history of a place.’

  Elizabeth laughed. ‘It’s always history with you, Rob.’

  He frowned at her. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Everything you do, every action you take, you’re not thinking of now, what it means for this moment. You’re thinking far ahead, years even. You’re thinking of the legacy you’ll leave behind. And I want you to have plenty of time to build that legacy. Which is why you’re not going to France. You understand me?’

  He met her eye. ‘Yes, Bess, I understand.’

  30

  Kenilworth Castle, Warwickshire, April 1563

  Robert jumped down from his horse and beheld Kenilworth. His Kenilworth. Elizabeth had not understated the matter when she said it was ruinous; some of the older structures had crumbled away and several chambers had lost their ceilings and were open to the air. But it was still impressive.

  ‘Good day, my lord.’ A large man with a shaggy beard waved a trowel at Robert from the bottom of a deep trench, touching his muddy fingers to his cap in deference.

  ‘Turner. A fine day, is it not?’

  ‘Aye, you picked the right day to come visiting, my lord. The sun hasn’t shone this bright for many a day.’

  ‘Has it slowed down the work?’ Robert asked, wandering along the path. Turner climbed out of his ditch and hurried to catch his master up.

  ‘A bit. But we have done quite a lot already.’

  ‘Yes, it does seem to be progressing well,’ Robert agreed, trying to stop his nose from wrinkling at the smell coming off of Turner. ‘How soon before it will be habitable, do you think?’

  ‘Oh,’ Turner shook his head, ‘you’ve got quite a wait for that, my lord. There’s a fair amount of work to be done before you can think of settling.’

  Robert gave him an apologetic smile. ‘You’ll have to forgive my impatience, Turner. My enthusiasm sometimes doesn’t reconcile with common sense. The queen will visit here when it’s done, you know.’