“They are his servants. It is his affair. Your Majesty, your crown could be at stake. A verdict of accidental death must be brought in.”
“Will the people believe it?”
“There will always be some who do not. But that is inevitable. If a jury brings in a verdict of accidental death that will have to be publicly accepted. There are certain to be those who will believe Lord Robert guilty of murder… and Your Majesty with him.”
“That is impossible. I knew nothing of the woman.”
“The people believe that you wish to marry Lord Robert and Lady Amy was in the way.”
“I am innocent,” I said. “I know nothing of her death. Is the end of one countrywoman so very important?”
“Of the utmost importance. The people will accept political killings— even those such as occurred in your sister's reign. There is usually an excuse for them which people understand…or some do. No one will tolerate the murder of a wife by her husband in order that he may marry another woman. We must at all costs stop a charge of murder. Anything is better than that, because if it were proved to be murder, Your Majesty would be implicated. You must face the fact that your hold on the crown is not as firm as we should like it to be. Until now the people have shown their love for you in no small way, but a scandal of such magnitude could alter that. There is Mary Queen of Scots across the water, with the French King—and now possibly with Spanish help—ready to put her on the throne. And even nearer home there is the Lady Katharine Grey whose sister was queen for nine days, and she, too, is the great-granddaughter of your grandfather Henry VII. Your Majesty must walk warily.”
“I know it well, and I know too, good Master Cecil, that I can rely on your wisdom.”
He nodded. “It is well that Lord Robert has been sent away from Court. We must ridicule all suggestions of murder. The verdict shall be accidental death; and Lord Robert must remain at Kew until we have the right verdict. In the meantime I will call on him there, which will show the people that I regard him as my good friend who cannot be anything but innocent, and show that his stay at Kew is by no means an arrest but merely undertaken in view of the delicacy of the situation. It will show that he himself feels it better to remain there until his name is completely cleared of this absurd suspicion.”
“I thank you, Cecil. We shall come through this, and then we shall tread with especial care.”
* * *
I LIVED IN a state of nervous tension awaiting the verdict of the coroner's jury. I knew that the country was aghast and that there was strong suspicion of Robert which included me. My enemies, of course, were making the most of the scandal. Sir Nicholas Throckmorton, who was now my Ambassador in France, wrote to Cecil to tell him that the Queen of Scots had laughed aloud when she heard the story and said for all to hear: “So the Queen of England is going to marry her horsemaster who has killed his wife to make room for her.”
How dared she! The foolish pampered creature! I disliked her intensely, not only because she claimed my throne and was unquestionably legitimate but because the people at the Court of France were constantly singing of her exceptional beauty and grace, which, I told myself spitefully, was no doubt because now that Henri Deux had died so suddenly, she and her little Franois were Queen and King of France.
Our ambassadors reported from every country that it was the general opinion that Robert had murdered his wife in order to marry me. They sent strong advice that there should be no marriage with Robert.
They need not have worried. I, too, had made up my mind about that.
Robert, determined that at the coroner's court there should be a verdict of accidental death, had taken the precaution of sending a distant kinsman, Thomas Blount, down to Cumnor Place to brief the servants so that they should be aware of what their master expected of them. He knew Thomas Blount would do his utmost for, being a poor relation, he had everything to win through Robert. If Robert were to fail, he would fail with him. Such men make good servants.
Blount evidently did his work well and everyone who had been in the house on that fatal day was primed in what he or she must say. Most of them had been away from the house when the accident happened because the annual fair had come to the neighborhood and they had all wanted to attend it.
Lady Dudley had stayed behind. I thought of her in that house alone. Had she had any premonition? She could not have been ignorant of the rumors. They abounded. How would a lonely woman feel when her husband was paying court to another woman and there had been rumors that he was plotting her death?
Why had she allowed them all to go to the fair, leaving her alone in the house? That seemed to point to suicide. But would a woman who wished to kill herself choose such a method? How could she be certain of death? The same applied to murder—unless of course the victim was killed by some other means and thrown down the staircase to make it appear she had fallen down and, doing so, died.
There must be some explanation. I wished that I knew it. Or did I? Did I really want to know what had happened in that quiet house on that day when almost everybody had gone to the fair and Amy Robsart was alone?
I waited patiently for the jury's verdict. I guessed it would be what we wanted. How could it be otherwise? Accident? Suicide? Either would do, but accident was better. Murder it must never be called.
It was—as I had known it would be—a foregone conclusion. The jury would not want to offend a man as powerful as Robert was—nor did they wish to displease me. So there was only one verdict.
Amy Robsart's maid, Mistress Pinto, who had been with her for many years and who was devoted to her, did hint at her mistress's suffering. The theory of a growth in the breast was brought up. It could have been suicide. Suicide or accident, it did not greatly matter.
So the verdict was accidental death. Cecil was relieved; Robert was overjoyed; but I was sober. I did not think the matter could be so neatly dealt with as that.
* * *
ROBERT RETURNED TO COURT. No one dared mention the matter of Lady Dudley's death in his presence or mine, but that did not prevent its being frequently spoken of and I doubt whether many believed the coroner's verdict. Robert was watched even more attentively than before. He had acquired a new reputation—one which set men making sure they did not offend him. Clearly they thought he was a man who had the ability to remove those who stood in his way. I tried to behave as though nothing had happened. I wanted to give the impression that Robert was just a good subject who had rather special gifts and that was why I favored him.
He was constantly at my side and I talked to him of matters of State. He had a good grasp of these and he always looked at them with an eye to the advantage of the crown. During that time Robert was so certain that he would soon be sharing it that he could not stop himself behaving like a king.
I was tender toward him. I was sorry for all the suspicion which had been directed at him. If he were indeed innocent that would be galling for there is nothing so maddening as to be accused of something one has not done. And if he had murdered his wife… well then, he had done that for me. And I had led him on, tempting him perhaps too far.
I could not help my feelings, but I was more alive when I was in his company than that of anyone else. If he were absent, then I found the company dull. I liked his dark looks, his magnificent vital presence; I liked his arrogance; I liked his persistence and his ability to withdraw himself with an air of unconcern from an intolerable situation such as the one which had recently threatened to destroy him.
I was no less in love with Robert Dudley after his wife's death than I had been before.
Constantly he urged marriage.
“How could we,” I demanded, “while there are rumors in the air?”
“If you do not marry me people will say it is because you do not believe in my innocence.”
“But if I do, might they not believe in my guilt?” I went on: “Robin, this matter has caused grievous harm to us both.”
“Nonsense,” he replied, for t
here were times when he seemed to forget that I was the Queen, and I did not always reprove him. In fact I liked his insolence. It was all part of that overwhelming masculinity which so appealed to the feminine side of my nature. “It has done us great good. It has cleared the way for us.”
At such times I thought: Yes, he is guilty. He arranged for that poor woman to fall down the staircase.
I could easily believe that, and yet it made no difference.
Cecil continued to be concerned about my unmarried state.
Time was passing, he said. I must produce an heir. Was I going to put off marriage until it was too late for me to bear children?
“I have many years before me yet, I would remind you,” I retorted.
“Madam,” he replied, “the people look for it.”
I prevaricated and Cecil was too shrewd not to know what I was doing.
“I would agree to marriage with Robert Dudley, Madam,” he said, “for I truly believe that in your fondness for him you would quickly conceive.”
I was amazed.
“The scandal concerning his late wife is too recent,” I said.
“I know. I know. Perhaps a secret marriage. Once the heir was born, the people would be ready to love you again.”
“They will love me,” I said firmly. “Give me time.”
“Marriage is the answer and if it must be Robert Dudley, then so be it.”
Perhaps he had thought such a suggestion would make me wild with joy. It did not.
I said: “Not yet. Not yet. I will decide in my own time.”
I think I had already decided. Much as I loved Robert I knew his nature. He yearned to be King and once I married him he would be. He was too sure of himself. One would think he was there already. No! I wanted no man to stand beside me. I would be sovereign, and I alone.
Moreover, I had to win back the people's trust, and I would never do that if I married Robert Dudley.
When I came to think of it, the death of Robert's wife was the greatest lesson I was ever likely to learn and if I did not take advantage of that, I deserved to lose my crown.
The Earl of Leicester
THE LADIES OF MY BEDCHAMBER WERE A CHARMING AND handsome company of women. I should not have chosen them if they had not been. I was very susceptible to beauty in both men and women. I liked to have good-looking people around me. I had sufficient personal attraction myself not to be jealous of a pretty woman, and as I was surrounded by an aura of royalty, I must outshine them all.
The three who pleased me best were Mary Sidney, Jane Seymour and Lettice Knollys—and all for different reasons.
Mary Sidney was a dear affectionate creature, and as she was Robert's sister that made a special bond between us. Mary loved all her family but there was no doubt who was her special favorite. She was able to tell me little anecdotes from his childhood and we would laugh together over his boldness like two doting parents. Mary was such a faithful creature and I liked Henry Sidney, her husband, whom I had known since his boyhood. When my brother Edward had come to the throne, he had been made one of the principal gentlemen of the Privy Chamber. He had obviously been seen as a rising star since Northumberland had chosen him to marry his daughter Mary. It was a happy marriage, Mary being such a gentle, loving girl who, I suppose, would have made a success of most relationships. She certainly had become one of my dearest companions.
Lady Jane Seymour was another gentle girl. I took to her because she was Thomas Seymour's niece and I was sorry for her because both her father and uncle had gone to the block. I felt sympathy for the children who had been thus deprived of a parent—perhaps because I had myself. Jane was a very delicate girl and I was always scolding her about not taking more care of her health. In one matter she did not altogether please me and that was in her friendship with Lady Katharine Grey. Katharine gave herself airs. The silly little creature thought she had more right to the throne than I had, and it had been brought back to me—not by Jane Seymour I hasten to say—that she had said she should have been declared next in succession. I supposed there were some few who would agree that she should. But then there were some who talked of Mary of Scotland, not only as the next Queen but the rightful one. I was always on my guard against successors to the throne, for I imagined they were always casting covetous eyes on the present occupier. Moreover, clever people had a habit of paying court to such, and if too much favor was shown to them it might well be that they would wish to speed up the inheritance.
No! I did not like successors to the throne—unless of course one should be the natural heir of my body, which was very unlikely in my present mood or, I was inclined to think, my mood hereafter. Even some sons had tried to replace their fathers. Successors were a breed to be avoided rather than cultivated and I decided to keep a watchful eye on Katharine Grey. And the one thing which prevented my complete confidence in Jane Seymour was her close friendship with Katharine Grey.
The third of my favorite ladies was Lettice Knollys. She was quite different from the other two. There was nothing gentle about Lettice. She was a fiery creature. Her father, Sir Francis Knollys, had married the daughter of Mary Boleyn who was my aunt, so there was a family connection between me and Lettice. I always liked to advance the Boleyn side of my family when possible for, on the death of my mother, life had been hard for them. Thus Lettice would have been of interest to me even if she had not been an outstandingly attractive girl; and if she had not been one of the most beautiful girls at Court, she would have been noticed for her wit and vivacity. I liked her immediately but I realized that it might be necessary to curb those high spirits and a certain tendency which I discovered of trying to outshine everyone… including me.
She danced well and dancing was one of my special accomplishments. I never tired of it. I loved to glide across the floor and I knew that I looked my best when dancing because of my tallish willowy figure. I often chose to dance with Robert, who also performed well. Very often when we took the floor others would fall away as though to suggest it would be sacrilege to dance while Robert and I cavorted together. The applause would always ring out when the music stopped, and I would smile at the appreciation on the faces of the courtiers knowing that part of their eulogies were directed to the crown; but nevertheless I was an expert performer.
And this girl Lettice Knollys danced as well as I did. None would say she did, of course, but they knew it; and she often called attention to herself when I was dancing and it irritated me faintly; but whatever her charms and accomplishments she had no crown to augment them.
She was inclined to be a little familiar too—presuming on the fact that we were some sort of cousins. I often found the need to rebuke her and sometimes gave her a sharp rap across the knuckles for her clumsiness when she helped to dress me, and I knew that when she hung her head and assumed a humble attitude, she was quite aware that the rebuke had been incurred not for clumsiness but for her own attractions.
Sometimes I wondered why I did not dismiss her. But she was so pretty in a very striking way. I think she had my mother's eyes for they were dark and heavily lashed but whereas my mother had been dark-haired, Lettice's hair was honey-colored. It was abundant and curly. She must have been very like her grandmother, Mary Boleyn, my mother's sister who had been my father's mistress before he married my mother Anne. I heard that Mary had been one of those yielding women who are irresistible to men. I always supposed this was because the men knew there need not be long delays in reaching their desires. Mary was said to be one of those who could not say no, and those are the ones who are naturally irresistible to men, being a constant reminder to them of their own irresistibility.
We were in June. Robert's wife had died last September, but the rumors persisted. I tried to show my indifference to them and had long since ordered the freedom of Mother Dowe who had set the rumors about that I had borne a child or was about to have one. I wanted to show that such foolish gossip was not worth punishing anyone for and that I cared little for my detracto
rs—much as my grandfather Henry VII had done with such good effect in the case of Perkin Warbeck. I was often glad that I had made such a close study of history. It was full of lessons for the living.
Robert was still hoping for marriage and I was still prevaricating. I would not give him a direct no. Nor would I accept any other suitor.
“Time is passing. We are growing older,” pleaded Robert.
“We are still young and because of what happened, there must be a gap of time between then and any steps we take.”
Robert grew sullen, hectoring, which made me laugh. I was constantly reminding him that I was the Queen and that he should not forget it. Poor Robert, how his fingers itched to grasp the crown!
There are men like that. They yearn for power. I could have told him that great tribulations come with a crown as so many of my ancestors had discovered to their cost. It would make no difference. Men like Robert stretched out their eager hands for it. They would do anything for it. They would fight for it, kill…
Mary Sidney was a strong advocate for her brother. “The burdens of state are too much for a woman to carry alone,” she said.
“It depends on the woman,” I told her, my eyes flashing so that she knew better than to pursue the subject.
She changed it. “Robert is planning a Midsummer's Day water party.”
“I have heard nothing of it,” I replied sharply.
“He wanted it to be a surprise for you.”
“He is always planning for me,” I said tenderly.
“Your Majesty, he has told me that he thinks of naught but your pleasure.”
“There is no one like him,” I said.
Mary beamed with pleasure. “I loved all my brothers,” she went on, “but we all agreed there was no one like Robert. He shone among the rest of us from the time he was two.”
“How I should have loved to see him when he was two!”
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