There is no way of knowing where the impetus for marriage came from, but by the beginning of 1578, if not before, Leicester and Lettice made an agreement to wed. While they certainly loved one another, risking the Queen’s wrath in their determination to marry, there were other advantages to a marriage. From Lettice’s perspective, Leicester was an undeniable catch: he was well favoured by the Queen, he had a good income, numerous estates and cultured interests. His patronage of the arts was famous; Leicester’s Men, the company of players he had founded, were performing regularly at court, where they were popular, and after 1576 they had also begun to appear at the theatre – in 1587 they even performed at the Danish court.1 He could also provide her with a home and valuable support when it came to settling her finances. For Leicester, too, the prospect of marrying Lettice held appeal. She came from a good Protestant family, and he was on friendly terms with both her father and her brothers; her younger brother, Francis, was a member of his household, and he was well acquainted with several of the others. Like him, Lettice was also a widower who was thirty-two at the time of her husband’s death, but crucially, she had also proven that she was capable of producing children – an important consideration for a man who was in his forties and had yet to produce a legitimate heir. In addition, not only had the Queen shown great favour to Lettice, but she was also her close kinswoman. If Leicester could not marry the Queen, then Lettice, as her kinswoman with royal blood in her veins – something of which she was inwardly proud – was the next best thing.
Both Lettice and Leicester realized that they were highly unlikely to obtain the Queen’s consent for their marriage. But they were in love and determined to be together; a secret marriage was therefore their only option. They were playing a dangerous game, though; and what was more, they both knew it. Numerous examples of the Queen’s displeasure upon discovering that her courtiers had married without her consent loomed in front of them. In 1562, it had been Leicester himself who had informed the Queen of the secret marriage of her cousin, Lady Katherine Grey, and the Earl of Hertford.2 So outraged was the Queen that she had Lady Katherine, the younger sister of the ill-fated Lady Jane, and her husband cast into the Tower. To make matters worse, Katherine was pregnant, and gave birth to a son while still imprisoned. Katherine’s story was not destined to have a happy ending, and having given birth to another son in the Tower, she was permanently separated from her family. She died in house imprisonment on 26 January 1568.3 The Queen’s treatment of Katherine Grey was extreme, and fuelled by the fact that she had a claim to the throne. Nevertheless, over the years her attitude had not thawed. Katherine’s youngest sister, Mary, had faced similar treatment for a similar crime – she had been clandestinely married on the same day as the wedding of Lettice’s brother in 1565 – and it did not end there.4 In January 1576, Eleanor Brydges, the daughter of Lord Chandos, had informed the Earl of Rutland that ‘The Queen has used Mary Shelton very ill for her marriage.’ She claimed that the Queen was liberal ‘both with blows and evil words, and hath not yet granted her consent’.5 It was little wonder that many of her ladies and courtiers were afraid to tell their royal mistress the truth, forcing them to marry in secret. By doing so, however, they risked her wrath. As historian Tracy Borman accurately summarized, ‘It was without doubt the surest way to lose the Queen’s favour.’6
Although Lettice did not have a claim to the throne like Katherine and Mary Grey, she had enough experience of her kinswoman to realize that if Elizabeth discovered that she had married her favourite then there would be serious consequences: for Leicester the outcome could surely be much worse. Elizabeth had once been in love with him, and still harboured strong feelings for him. Despite the arrival of another favourite on the scene in the form of Sir Christopher Hatton, and talks of a French marriage with François, formerly the Duc d’Alençon and now Duc d’Anjou, Leicester and Elizabeth still had a unique and strong bond.7 She would not marry him, but that did not mean she was happy for him to marry elsewhere, and Leicester knew it. He was the one man in her life who was completely off limits: he was taboo. He in turn had once loved her, too, but his feelings towards her had changed, and while he still cared about her deeply he now loved another. Though there were numerous examples before them, and in spite of the likely ramifications that news of their marriage would create, Leicester and Lettice were by now too emotionally involved to contemplate abandoning each other. They were in love – so much so that they agreed that the risk was worth the reward.
It was probably shortly before or shortly after the wedding of Lettice’s sister, Elizabeth, that they were either secretly betrothed, or underwent some kind of marriage ceremony. It is believed that the ceremony took place at Kenilworth, but no details are known.8 Neither is it clear how long the couple intended to keep their vows a secret, but what is certain is that before long Lettice’s father, Sir Francis Knollys, discovered it. Several reports later circulated relating the news. These detailed that following Walter’s death,
the Earl of Leicester, with a great sum of money, and large promises, put away Douglas Sheffield, his wife, and openly married Essex’s widow. For although it was given out, that he was privately married to her, yet Sir Francis Knollys, her father, who was well acquainted with Leicester’s roving loves, would not believe it, unless he himself was at the marriage, and had it testified by a public notary.9
Camden told a similar tale, reporting that Leicester ‘joined himself in a double marriage’, while Leicester’s Commonwealth said that he ‘married and remarried her for the contention of her friends’.10 Lettice herself may have chosen to confide in her father, but whatever the circumstances, Francis was deeply concerned. If there had been no witnesses to the marriage then it could easily be denied or annulled by either party, should they so wish. Francis resolved to take action, ‘fearing lest he [Leicester] should deceive his daughter’.11 He had a strict sense of morality and upright principles, and if Lettice and Leicester were to be man and wife, then the union needed to be binding.
RICHARD, LORD RICH, had built Wanstead House, recently acquired by Leicester, in the 1550s. It was a traditional Elizabethan house enclosed around a quadrangle, and among its sumptuous rooms were a hall, a great chamber, twenty bedrooms and a chapel. There was also a ‘great gallery’, where many pieces from Leicester’s splendid portrait collection were hung. These included paintings of the Queen, her half-sister Mary, and Lady Margaret Lennox, and were all proud declarations of Leicester’s loyalties and friendships, both past and present.12 There was also stabling for fifty-eight horses, and beautiful gardens that the Earl was proud of.13 Situated just ten miles from London, it provided easy access to court, and yet was located at a convenient enough distance to allow the Earl some privacy. In the autumn of 1578, that was exactly what Leicester was hoping for.
All was quiet at Wanstead on the morning of Sunday 21 September 1578. The preparations for the day’s event had been finalized just the previous day, when Leicester had approached his chaplain, Humphrey Tyndall, and asked him to perform a marriage ceremony for him. Tyndall later testified that Leicester had spoken to him earnestly about the fact that ‘he had for a good season forborne marriage in respect of her Majesty’s displeasure’, but that he was now ‘for the better quieting of his own conscience determined to marry with the right honourable Countess of Essex’.14 His feelings for Lettice had had plenty of time to grow, and there was no question of her being his mistress. Leicester, however, was careful to inform Tyndall that the marriage ‘might not be publicly known without great damage of his estate’, and therefore asked him ‘to solemnise a marriage in secret between them’.15 Tyndall was a ‘full minister’, having been ordained by the Bishop of Peterborough in 1572, and was happy to comply with Leicester’s request.16
That same evening, Leicester’s good friend Roger Lord North arrived at Wanstead. After the friends had eaten, Leicester divulged to North that ‘he intended to be married next morning, by the leave of God, and therefore prayed thi
s deponent to rise somewhat betimes for the purpose’. North readily agreed to witness his friend’s nuptials, and when he rose the following morning he discovered Leicester ‘walking in a little gallery, looking towards the garden’.17 The day had now come.
When Tyndall arrived at Wanstead between seven and eight o’clock that morning he was met by Lord North. Conveying him to ‘a little gallery of Wanstead House opening upon the garden’, before long they were joined by Leicester himself.18 His brother Ambrose, Lettice’s father and Henry Herbert, second Earl of Pembroke, accompanied him. Like Lord North, the Earl of Pembroke was a close friend of Leicester’s, and the bonds of friendship between them had been further cemented when, in 1577, Pembroke had married Lady Mary Sidney, Leicester’s niece.19 Also present was Lettice’s younger brother, Richard. He was close to his sister and well trusted, and was therefore an obvious choice of witness. They were all painfully aware that there would be consequences for them if the Queen were to discover what was taking place, but they were determined to support the couple. After the men had gathered, ‘within a little after’ a hush descended as Lettice entered the room. Dressed, as Tyndall remembered, in ‘a loose gown’, she was escorted by her father towards her groom.20 They had both been here before, but gone were the pomp, the festivities, the gawping onlookers. The morning’s ceremony was a most personal and quiet affair, quite at odds with what it heralded for both bride and groom.
Much has been made of Tyndall’s reference to Lettice’s ‘loose gown’, which has been interpreted as a sign of pregnancy. Similarly, Leicester’s comments about ‘the better quieting of his own conscience’ have been taken as an implication that he and Lettice had consummated their relationship before they were married.21 There is no way of knowing the truth of the matter; it is possible that Lettice was in the early stages of pregnancy at this time. This may explain why a marriage ceremony with witnesses was required, in order to safeguard the legitimacy of their child. This is, indeed, the precise reason why depositions providing details of the ceremony were taken in 1581, when Lettice was pregnant with the couple’s son. However, the reference to her ‘loose gown’ is the only indication that this was the case; certainly no child was born, and it is hardly conclusive proof. If Lettice had indeed been pregnant, then it is surprising that none of her contemporaries made reference to it. Loose fitted clothing was also fashionable for women at this time, so Tyndall’s comment may have amounted to nothing more than a complimentary observation about Lettice’s appearance.
The witnesses watched as Tyndall ‘did with the free consent of them both marry the said Earl and Countess together in such manner and form as is prescribed by the communion book, and did pronounce them lawful man and wife before God and the world according to the usual order at solemnization of marriages’.22 Lettice was now officially Leicester’s wife, and from the moment she took her wedding vows, her relationship with Queen Elizabeth had changed forever.
Camden claimed that this second ceremony was performed ‘a year or two after’ the first, but this would be impossible – the ceremony at Wanstead was conducted almost exactly two years to the day after the death of Walter Devereux.23 More probable is that the wedding at Wanstead took place within a matter of months of the secret ceremony that may have been hosted at Kenilworth.
Leicester’s feelings as he encountered his bride were those of a man who was besotted. Unlike her royal kinswoman, Lettice was not reluctant to enter into matrimony, and instead felt quite the opposite. She loved him, and she would be a proper wife to him – she wanted to marry him, and she had not played the games that her cousin had become so eloquent at. Theirs was a marriage that would prove to be both happy and enduring. For her part, she was now married to one of the most powerful men in the realm. Even so, no matter how much happiness her marriage brought her on a personal level, hers was a dangerous position.
THE NEWLYWEDS’ HONEYMOON was destined to be of short duration, for two days after the ceremony the Queen descended on Wanstead. A portrait of Elizabeth by the Flemish artist Marcus Gheeraerts, known as the Wanstead portrait or the Peace portrait, supposedly portrays the Queen at her favourite’s home with the beautiful gardens of Wanstead in the background. Two women and a gentleman can be seen in the background, and it has been conjectured that one of these women was Lettice. With no idea of what had so recently taken place at Wanstead, Elizabeth chose to visit the home of her favourite in order to mark the end of her summer progress. On this occasion, her travels had taken her to Cambridgeshire, Suffolk and Norfolk, and when she arrived at Leicester’s Essex home her host ordered a magnificent feast in her honour. While she dined with him, a meal at which Lettice was almost certainly present, the Queen remained oblivious to the fact that her favourite was now a married man. Neither did she have any inkling that her kinswoman was no longer the Countess of Essex, but was instead the Countess of Leicester. As the couple ate their meal in the Queen’s company, they would doubtless have been on edge, and with good reason. Their happy news was not destined to remain a secret for long, and what they were now experiencing was the calm before the storm.
CHAPTER 12
One Queen in England
WITHIN WEEKS OF Lettice’s wedding and the sumptuous feast at Wanstead, the badly kept secret, which had been the subject of servants’ gossip, was out. Whispers of Lettice’s ‘secret marriage’ had begun circulating almost immediately, and it was not long before they reached the ears of those at court. In November 1578, two months after the wedding, the Earl of Sussex had informed the French ambassador, Michel de Castelnau, that Leicester was married to the Countess, and before long many of those at court were aware of the couple’s nuptials. Sussex was an enemy of Leicester’s, and had heard of the marriage through the gossip that had been spread via the Earl’s servants. Even the captive Queen of Scots, imprisoned in the north of England, knew of the marriage. It was, therefore, only a matter of time before the Queen found out. The storm was brewing. The only question was: who would be the one to tell her?
AS THE NEW Year of 1579 began, Lettice exchanged the customary gifts with the Queen in the same pleasant manner that she had always done. On this occasion she made her royal mistress a rich gift of ‘a great chain of amber garnished with gold and pearl’, and though her name was listed among the recipients who received a gift in return, the exact nature of her present was unrecorded.1 The Queen received her kinswoman at court that season with as much favour as she had on previous occasions, unaware that Lettice was harbouring a secret. However, it was to be the last occasion that Lettice’s name would appear on the New Year’s gift rolls. Leicester, whom Elizabeth believed to be as devoted to her as ever, gave the monarch several costly presents of jewels, including ‘a very great topaz set in gold enamelled, with eight pearls pendant’, as well as a gift of a far more personal nature: a set of buttons gorgeously inlaid with diamonds and rubies, with the bear and ragged staff that formed the crest of the Earl’s family and, even more significantly, lovers’ knots.2 The symbolism was clear, but it was not a suggestion that Leicester was at liberty to make.
ON 5 JANUARY 1579, the personal envoy of the French Duc d’Anjou arrived in London. Monsieur Jean de Simier, ‘a most choice courtier, exquisitely skilled in love toys, pleasant conceits and court dalliances’, was a close friend of the Duc’s, and had a charm that quickly won him great favour with Elizabeth.3 Simier also had an extremely shady past, for he had murdered his own brother after he discovered that he had been having an affair with his wife – a crime for which he miraculously went unpunished.4 Simier’s task was simple: he was to pay suit to the Queen on behalf of his master and sue for her hand in marriage. If Simier were successful, Anjou would have triumphed where all of Elizabeth’s other suitors, including Leicester, had failed. Lettice was almost certainly at court in order to be close to her new husband, and would therefore have been a witness to the fact that, within no time, Elizabeth had given Simier the nickname of ‘Monkey’. It was also observed that the Queen ‘
is best disposed and pleasanteth when she talketh with him’. Elizabeth enjoyed the notion and language of courtship, and Simier played the game and flattered her with dazzling effect.
However, though for many years Elizabeth’s councillors had been eager for her to marry, there were those who were now concerned for her health. She was forty-five, and by contemporary standards she was old to be considering a first marriage with the view to begetting heirs – although her doctors informed her that it was still possible. Lord Burghley was one of those who expressed the opinion that ‘it would have been better for her and the realm also’ if the Queen had married earlier. The idea of Elizabeth making a French marriage was deeply unpopular in England, primarily due to the fact that France was a Catholic nation and had been embroiled in the civil Wars of Religion for the past seventeen years. Only seven years prior to Simier’s arrival, the English people had been appalled to hear of the massacre of three thousand Huguenots (French Protestants) in Paris, in a sickening attack that is remembered as the St Bartholomew’s Day Massacre.5 When she was told of the news, the Queen and her ladies had dressed in black, and when Elizabeth later received the French ambassador it was in silence; although, politically, the alliance was fully maintained.
Seven years on, the scars had still not faded; as a French Catholic, Simier naturally earned the dislike of many of the men at court. Lettice, too, was not a fan. An ardent Protestant, she was among those who found the idea of the Queen’s marriage to a Frenchman abhorrent – but her opinion was of little matter; and increasingly so. For Lettice would soon discover that there were more pressing matters than the Queen’s courtships – her own relationship with her royal mistress was about to take a drastic turn.
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