by Laura Dowers
‘Well, in time, my lord, it will be fit for such a great lady, have no fear.’
Robert moved away, up the causeway which he was having turned into a tiltyard. Already the earth had been turned, the ramparts built, the weeds plucked out and the foundations of the viewing galleries at each end marked out with pegs. And there, to the right, would be the new stable block he had designed, to house all the beautiful horses he was planning to buy; strong, graceful creatures from Ireland he knew Elizabeth wouldn’t be able to resist.
‘Robert!’
A female voice broke into his musings. He turned, one hand shielding his eyes from the sun to see a woman climbing down from a coach. She wore a dull grey dress and her head and shoulders were covered by a veil.
‘Mary!’ He waved back. He ran up to her and kissed her through the veil. ‘Why didn’t you tell me you were coming? I might have missed you.’
‘I came to see the castle, not you.’
‘Oh, so you’re not pleased to see me,’ he teased.
‘Of course I am,’ she said, taking his arm. ‘I’m glad you’re here.’
They walked back along the causeway. ‘Well, what do you think?’ he asked.
‘I think it’s going to take a lot of work. And money. Do you have enough?’
‘I’ll find it,’ Robert shrugged. ‘I can always find money.’
‘I’m not sure the queen was being generous giving you this. Couldn’t she have found one that wasn’t falling down?’
‘It seems Elizabeth knows me better than you, sweet sister. I couldn’t have hoped for anything better than Kenilworth. There isn’t anything better. Anyway, enough about me. How are you?’
‘As well as I can be.’
‘I wish you would come back to Court. I miss you, and so does the queen. I’m sure you exiling yourself at Penshurst makes her feel even more guilty.’
‘So she should,’ Mary retorted feelingly. ‘Is it fair that I should bear all the scars of her disease, and she emerges unscathed? Could she not have suffered just a little too?’
‘Don’t be cruel, Mary.’
‘Cruel?’ she cried, throwing away his arm. ‘Is it not cruel that my husband looks on me with disgust and not desire? And I can’t blame him.’
‘You are still his wife, Mary,’ Robert said, grabbing her shoulders and bringing her to face him. ‘He married you for yourself, not your face.’ His fingers pulled gently at the veil. He meant to tear it from her head, to show her that she had nothing to fear from showing her cruel affliction to the world, but her pitiful, half-smothered scream halted him. Instead, he put his arms around her waist and pulled her to him. ‘I won’t do it, I promise.’ He felt her relax and he released her. His eyes caught a movement back at the coach and his face broke into a grin. ‘Is that who I think it is?’
Mary followed his gaze. ‘It is. He jumped from the coach before I could stop him. I imagine he’s been running around the castle, getting in everyone’s way.’
‘PHILIP!’ Robert waved furiously.
The boy halted and looked around, startled, to find out who called his name. ‘UNCLE ROB!’ he yelled. He ran towards them and flung himself into his uncle’s outstretched arms.
‘Well, now I see who the favourite is in our family,’ Mary laughed, as Robert propped his nephew on his hip
‘It’s been ages since I’ve seen you, Uncle,’ the boy scolded.
‘I quite agree. It’s a great fault in your mother not to bring you to see me more often, Phil. You can’t be nagging her enough.’
‘Mother told me this was a castle.’
‘It is a castle,’ Robert replied indignantly.
‘But it’s all broken.’
‘At the moment, Phil. But you see all the men hereabouts? They’re going to make this a dream castle, and there will be no place like it in the whole of England. Shall it not look grand, Phil?’ He tweaked the boy’s nose and set him on his feet.
‘The queen will visit, of course?’ Mary asked.
‘Of course, and she shall enjoy her stay, by Christ, she shall, Mary. But enough of her.’ Robert patted Philip on the shoulder, gave him a complicit wink and sprinted away, his spindly-legged nephew running after him.
31
July 1563
Despite Robert’s assurances, the French campaign to help the Huguenot Protestants was not a success. Ambrose tried, but Huguenots inexplicably turned on their English allies to join with their Catholic enemies. It seemed Englishmen setting foot on French soil was enough to unite the two factions and turn them both against the English.
Ambrose asked for more men, weapons and money to fight the French forces but Elizabeth would not send them. And then disease swept through Ambrose’s army, weakening it still further. All Ambrose could do was seek a dignified surrender. He asked for permission from Elizabeth and she gave it, cursing Robert and Nicholas Throckmorton for persuading her to send men in the first place.
So Ambrose stood on the city walls of Newhaven, bargaining with the French below for terms of surrender. And a French musketeer, either bored or careless, shot him with a musket in the thigh. The surrender was made, and Ambrose and his army returned to England.
32
Southwick, West Sussex, August 1563
Robert rushed into the best bedroom in Master White’s house, his face smeared with the dirt of the road. ‘Ambrose. Dear Jesus, you look terrible.’
Ambrose tried to sit up, but he was too weak and sank back against the pillows. ‘I can at least rely on you not to mince your words, Rob.’
Robert pressed his lips to his brother’s hot forehead and sat down on the edge of the bed. ‘Have you seen a doctor?’
‘Yes, he left not half an hour ago, and Master White is looking after me very well. How is it you’ve come here?’
‘Thomas Wood wrote to me, said you were ill. Is it just the fever, or is it your leg as well?’ Robert pulled back the bedclothes, wincing when he saw the bandage on Ambrose’s thigh, his bright red blood staining the cloth.
‘The fever is better than it was. My leg is very painful.’
‘Trust you to get in the way of a musket ball.’
‘I know. You should not get so close to me, Rob,’ Ambrose said, giving him a gentle shove away. ‘It would not do for you to catch my fever.’
‘Oh, I never catch anything,’ Robert waved away his concern and threw off his riding cloak.
‘Still, you shouldn’t have come.’
‘Well, what could I do? I get a letter telling me my brother is gravely ill and it’s a miracle that he’s still alive. As if I could stay at Court once I knew that. Well, now that I have seen you and you are not likely to die just yet, I think I should let you sleep. I will ask Master White to put me up here until you are better and can come back to court with me. No, no argument. Sleep, Am.’ He stroked his fingers over his brother’s already closing eyes.
‘My lord.’ Master White stood at the foot of the stairs as Robert descended, his hand outstretched, holding a letter. ‘This has just arrived for you. I believe it is from the queen,’ he said reverentially.
‘Thank you, Master White,’ Robert said. ‘It seems my brother will need to stay here for a while. May I too trespass upon your good nature and beg a bed for myself until he is able to move?’
‘Certainly, my lord,’ White said, his mind already calculating the extra expense he would incur for their provisioning. ‘It would be an honour. I can arrange the chamber next to the Earl for you if that would serve.’
‘It would serve admirably, Master White, I thank you. And don’t worry about the cost.’ Robert untied the purse at his waist and passed it to him. ‘That should be enough for a few days at least.’
‘Oh, my lord, it’s not necessary,’ White protested gratefully, clutching the money bag to his chest. ‘Really –’
‘Not another word,’ Robert silenced him. ‘Now, Master White, could I have somewhere private to read my letter?’
‘Of course. Take my room
, my lord. There is a comfortable chair and a jug of good wine you might wish to partake of.’
‘I will gladly. I could also do with some food. It was a long ride here.’ Robert smiled his charming smile and Master White scuttled off to order dinner for his guest.
Robert fell into the fireside chair and opened Elizabeth’s letter. It was full of complaints. How dare Robert leave the court without permission? Ambrose had a fever, didn’t he? Robert could catch it, become ill and then where would Elizabeth be? And what about her horses?
Only at the close of the letter did Elizabeth think to ask how Ambrose fared.
Robert screwed up the letter and threw it in the grate.
33
Hampton Court Palace, Surrey, October 1563
Cecil leaned over Elizabeth’s shoulder and spoke quietly in her ear. ‘Madam, the question of Mary Stuart’s marriage has risen once again.’
Elizabeth glared up at him. ‘Why so?’
‘It seems she is now actively looking for a husband.’
Elizabeth glanced across the room to where Robert was talking with Henry Sidney. She knew Cecil still thought Robert was the best candidate for Mary’s hand. ‘Sit,’ Elizabeth instructed. ‘Lord Robert would have to be ennobled before Mary would even consider him.’
‘You had planned to do that anyway, madam,’ Cecil said, taking a seat. ‘Indeed, it is time he was.’
‘Are you so eager to be rid of him that you would advance him so, Cecil?’ she asked sharply.
‘No, madam, but as you ennobled his brother, it is not unreasonable you would do so for once so close to your heart.’
‘He is close to me, Cecil, but not so close that I am blind to all else. I see the advantages such a marriage would bring.’ She paused. ‘Write to Mary Stuart and propose Lord Robert.’
Cecil caught his breath. A decision, he thought, a miracle. ‘I shall do so at once, madam,’ he said and left before she changed her mind.
Elizabeth sighed and raising her hand, caught Robert’s eye and crooked her finger at him. She watched him excuse himself from Henry’s company and make his way towards her.
‘You wanted me, Your Majesty?’ he asked.
‘Come and sit by me, Robin,’ she said, indicating the chair vacated by Cecil. ‘I need to talk to you.’
‘This sounds serious,’ he said, settling himself down.
She took hold of his hand beneath the table and held it in her lap. ‘I’ve told Cecil to write to Mary Stuart. He is going to propose you as a husband for her.’
The colour drained from Robert’s face. ‘What?’ he gasped.
‘Now, don’t be angry. I have my reasons.’
‘The devil you do,’ he declared. Elizabeth shushed him to lower his voice. ‘What have I done to deserve this?’
‘It’s an honour, my sweet. You would be married to a queen.’ She added sharply, ‘I thought that was what you wanted.’
He glared at her. ‘You’re the only queen I want to marry. I don’t want to be packed off to Scotland. You may as well kill me now.’
‘Scotland isn’t that bad.’
‘You’d know that, would you? You, who have travelled so very extensively?’
Elizabeth’s mouth pursed. ‘I’ll forgive you your temper. I admit, it took me a while to get used to the idea. God’s Teeth, Robin, I no more want to lose you to Mary Stuart than you want to go. But for my security and for England’s, I need her to have a husband whom I can trust.’
‘What makes you think she’ll even have me? I have no rank. And worse, everyone knows I am your lover, don’t they? Do you think she’ll want your cast-off?’
‘There’s no need to be vulgar, Robin. And as for your rank, well, that can be easily remedied. I had planned to do it anyway,’ she said, idly fingering a pearl on her dress.
‘Do what?’ he asked sulkily.
‘Raise you to an earldom. I had thought Leicester would suit.’
Even that news could not lift Robert’s spirits. ‘Thank you,’ he muttered. ‘Did you say Cecil was writing to Scotland about me?’
‘Yes.’
Robert shook his head understandingly. ‘I see. He’s outmanoeuvred me at last, hasn’t he?’
‘It was Cecil’s idea,’ Elizabeth admitted, adding slyly, ‘I didn’t think of it, wouldn’t have thought of it, if it hadn’t been for him.’
Robert stared out across the room, watching the dancers as they passed before him. ‘Well, maybe it won’t be as bad as I imagine. Mary Stuart is very beautiful, by all accounts, and comely. She’ll keep my bed warm, if nothing else.’
‘You can go now,’ Elizabeth said coldly, throwing away his hand.
Robert rose and gave a slight, very slight, bow. ‘I hasten to do your bidding, Your Majesty, in this as in everything. Good night.’
Elizabeth watched Robert leave with tears in her eyes.
34
St James Palace, London, September 1564
Cecil stifled a sigh. He had thought the queen beyond this kind of display. But there she was, placing the heavy ermine-trimmed robes around Robert Dudley’s shoulders and taking the opportunity to run her fingers along his neck and play with the short stubs of his dark brown hair. And there was Norfolk. He had seen the familiarity too and was fuming. Unlike Cecil, Norfolk could never keep his temper in check.
So, Robert Dudley was now Earl of Leicester, and suitable for marriage with the Scottish queen. But Cecil had found out that Robert had written to Mary Stuart and told her he wasn’t interested in becoming her husband. Cecil had wondered whether he should tell Elizabeth about it, but he wasn’t sure that the news wouldn’t please her. She would no doubt it interpret it as a reluctance to leave her. And now, seeing her act so familiarly, he wondered if she had ever really intended to let Robert go. Women! Cecil thought in despair.
‘What do you think of my new creation, Sir James?’ Elizabeth asked.
Sir James Melville, the Scottish Ambassador, looked over to where Robert chatted with Cecil, and smiled. ‘The Earl of Leicester well becomes his new position, Your Majesty.’
‘He does,’ Elizabeth agreed. ‘Will your queen like him, do you think?’
‘How could she not?’
‘She would be foolish indeed if she did not,’ Elizabeth remarked. Melville kept quiet. ‘I must give you a present to give to my dear cousin, Mary.’
Melville followed her around the bed. He watched as she lifted the lid of a silver casket, took out a piece of cloth and unwrapped it, handing a miniature of herself to Melville.
‘A remarkable likeness,’ he said. ‘My queen will treasure it always.’
‘I would like to have a picture of her in return.’
‘Of course. And who else is in there?’ he said, peering into the box.
Elizabeth liked his impudence. She showed him the other miniatures in her box. ‘This is my late stepmother, Queen Catherine. This my father. This my sister. And this ...’ she hesitated.
Melville took the picture from her hands. ‘Ah, Lord Robert. Forgive me, I mean the Earl of Leicester. Perhaps I should take this to my Queen. She has not got a likeness of the Earl.’
Elizabeth snatched the miniature from his hand, placed it back in the box and slammed down the lid. ‘When my cousin has the Earl of Leicester, I will have need of his portrait.’
Robert was playing with his new badge with its emblem of the Bear and Ragged Staff.
‘Can’t you leave it alone?’ Elizabeth teased.
‘Give me something else to play with.’
She ignored the wink he gave her. ‘Well, you’ll be playing at tennis tomorrow. I’ve arranged for you and Norfolk to entertain the Court with a match.’
‘Can Norfolk even play?’
‘He’s actually very good.’ Elizabeth leant forward and snatched the last almond biscuit from the plate as Robert reached for it. ‘I hope you’ll make it interesting.’
His eyes narrowed. ‘What do you mean by interesting?’
‘That’s up t
o you.’
Robert frowned at her. ‘I do believe, Bess, you want me to fight with him.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. Why would I want my nobles fighting?’
‘Because he’s an idiot?’ Robert suggested.
Elizabeth laughed. ‘Robin, how dare you say such a thing about the noblest peer in the land?’
‘Everyone thinks it.’
‘Well, I will just say, it would please me greatly if you were to win tomorrow. Norfolk doesn’t care for me, which doesn’t trouble me greatly, for I neither need nor desire his affection, but I do want his respect. So, I would quite like to see Norfolk suffer a public defeat at your hands. That would hurt his pride a very great deal, I think.’
‘Bess,’ Robert said, admiringly, ‘you are a wicked woman.’
35
Hampton Court Palace, Surrey, September 1564
So much for putting Norfolk in his place, Robert thought, as the ball bounced past him and Norfolk scored another point. It looked as if he was going to lose the match and it would be he who would look like a fool. He raised his arm to serve and sent the ball spinning across the net, heading directly for Norfolk. It punched into Norfolk’s stomach, causing the duke to double over in pain.
‘My apologies, Norfolk,’ Robert called out, pleased to hear sniggers from the viewing gallery. ‘Perhaps if you were quicker on your feet.’
That remark earned him a ripple of laughter from the spectators. Robert served again. Norfolk returned it with a vengeance, but Robert side-stepped it neatly. He lobbed the ball high. It hit the angled wall and bounced off. Norfolk was too slow and missed it. Another point to Robert and he began to cheer up. Norfolk’s anger only increased and his frustration hampered his game. He lost point after point and Robert won the match easily.
‘Congratulations, my lord,’ Elizabeth called to Robert, ‘and commiserations to you, Your Grace.’ She unclasped a jewelled brooch from her bodice and threw it to Robert as a prize. He caught it and kissed it. ‘God’s Death, but you are both sweating like pigs.’