In High Places

by Bonny G Smith

  He wondered if Mary were disappointed that it was not she whom he sought for marriage. But he thought not; a match between them now would profit neither of them anything. No, it was better to proceed with their plan.

  Just then the door opened on silent hinges and there she was, the subject of all their plotting and planning. At two years of age, the Lady Arabella Stuart was a fetching child. She was solemn and seemingly well-behaved. In one tiny starfish hand she clutched a doll, dressed much as she was herself; the other held tightly to her nursemaid’s skirts. The child’s resemblance to her father was striking, but she had the red hair and fair complexion of her Tudor forebears. That was as well; Elizabeth’s acceptance of the fait accompli of the child’s marriage to his son by Douglass Sheffield was essential to the success of their scheme. For such was their plan; that the Lady Arabella Stuart should be named Elizabeth’s heir and succeed her on the throne of England. He knew Elizabeth still loved him, despite his liaisons with Douglass and Lettice; she should be even more amenable to the idea of naming Arabella as her successor if the child were married to her favorite’s son. And he was still that, despite the fact that Elizabeth insisted upon spending an inordinate amount of time in the company of that buffoon, Hatton.

  And so now he would finally realize his dream, his father’s dream, of a Dudley king on the throne of England. After all the years of hoping, it would not be himself; it would be his son. But he had come to terms with that. It was, after all, better than nothing.

  Mary regarded her young cousin and niece. She must at least appear to support the dreams of royalty of the Earl of Leicester and the Countess of Shrewsbury; but what right did either of them have to aspire to a throne? But it was essential that she appear to cooperate. She must stay on the good side of both Bess and Lord George, especially Bess, if she were to retain the hard-won modicum of freedom that she had become accustomed to in their charge and which she enjoyed.

  About the Earl of Leicester she cared not a fig. It would be supremely gratifying simply to witness his fall from grace when Elizabeth discovered that her paramour was attempting to manipulate the succession. What on earth possessed him, she wondered, to make him behave so? As with most men, it was likely his burning ambition. He was a commoner whose head had always itched for a crown.

  And she knew in her heart that the scheming on behalf of this innocent child was doomed to failure. Her own son was a much more viable candidate for the throne of England, and she meant to ensure that James claimed not only the throne of Scotland but that of England as well. Think of the advantages! He was male, and his accession would mean the union of the crowns and surely, an end to the ceaseless conflict and strife between the two countries. Why could Robert and Bess not see the impossibility of their dreams of sovereignty for their candidates? It was the same old story; ambition apparently blinded one to all save the object of one’s desire. So let them go on with their fantasy. Such behavior should only serve to undo them both without her intervention!

  Mary watched in silence as Bess and Robert made much of the child. Let them, she thought; for she knew in her heart that it must be her Jamie in the end.

  Kenilworth Castle, March 1578

  March was always an uncertain month in Warwickshire; one never knew if a balmy wind would blow in from the west, or if a biting cold blast would come from the east to chill one’s bones. This spring they had been particularly blessed; the weather had been warm since the end of February. So much so that Douglass’s lilies were blooming in the garden, and stood like sentries in a bed of vivid blue forget-me-nots. The ethereal white of the blossoms seemed to glow in the watery March sunshine, making them appear almost yellow.

  Douglass looked on fondly as little Robert strode up to one of the blooms; they were as tall as he was. “Oh!” he exclaimed, with a look of sheer wonderment on his face. He reached out a tiny hand and gently touched the furled petals. At the age of three and a half years, his vocabulary was still small but growing daily. He was a bright, beautiful child; at least she thought so. And his future was assured. He was to marry the daughter of Lady Elizabeth Stuart, the Countess of Lennox, now that the old countess had finally given up the ghost. Little Arabella was destined for the throne, and her son…her son! …was to be king consort. It was all arranged. Well, almost. But surely it was all decided; when Robert Dudley, the redoubtable Earl of Leicester, set out to accomplish a purpose, he would brook no refusals and would not be gainsaid. He was the favorite of the queen, much to her own discomfort and chagrin. She disliked being banished from the excitement of court, but still, banishment had its advantages. Douglass shivered with delight at the very thought of the nights Robert spent in her bed when he was at Kenilworth or Wanstead. At court, he dared not visit her bed for fear that the queen would hear of it. And if such banishment benefitted her son…

  Robert had arrived late in the fall in a flurry of excitement, with the news that a betrothal between their son and the Lady Arabella Stuart had been mooted by no less a person than the Countess of Shrewsbury herself. And the Queen of Scotland apparently supported the scheme to place his son on the throne of England beside the daughter of Charles Stuart. And she herself was nothing loath! When her son married the heir to the throne of England, the hole-in-corner affair that was her marriage to Robert must surely be recognized by all. She styled herself Countess of Leicester when away from court; the title was hers by right. But it was a hollow victory, because there were none to hear of it but the servants.

  Her musings were interrupted by the raucous sound of spurs on stone; Robert! The sound was music to her ears. Her beloved, returned to her from court at last! She arose, straightened her skirts, and lifted a nervous hand to her hair.

  As he rounded the bend into the garden, Robert’s step faltered. He had come home to Kenilworth full of purpose and with a new determination. But facing Douglass and speaking the words was vastly different, he discovered, than simply thinking about what must be said. The thought annoyed him. Was he not the powerful Earl of Leicester, favorite of the Queen of England? And what was Douglass, after all? She was certainly no favorite of Elizabeth, and never had been! If anything, Elizabeth abhorred her cousin, for her association with himself. She would never be welcome at court again, that was certain. At this his conscience smote him, somewhat unexpectedly; he was ruthless and his conscience seldom bothered him, but affairs of the heart were vastly different from politics. He shrugged the thought, and the attendant sentiment, aside. Was this not a political situation, at its core? He wanted a son to succeed to the throne of England; the best way to accomplish that goal was his only consideration.

  Liar, he thought to himself. In his heart he knew that such was not true. The truth was, Lettice had always been first in his affections, behind Elizabeth. Christ, because of Elizabeth! Douglass had always been a pale substitute for both women. He had never loved Douglass, even though he often told her that he did. It was the way of men. Women must accept. Lettice was now free, she was wealthy, she loved him, and she was a much more desirable parti than Douglass ever was, or could be.

  He and Douglass had a long history; she and that devil’s spawn, her sister Frances, had been after him for years. Elizabeth was coy and would never give in to him; this he knew in his heart of hearts. Lettice was married to the Earl of Essex, and was not available. But now Essex was dead and he and Lettice were free to marry. A son with Lettice was a much more viable candidate for the throne than Douglass’s boy could ever be. Christ on the cross, his own son! Or so she said. No, that was unfair. He knew that Douglass’s son was his own. But he must have Lettice. He must. He had wanted her for years. All those times that Elizabeth had accused him of dalliance with Lettice, and he had denied it, technically, he had not lied. But the spark between them had always been there; both he and Lettice knew it, although they had not owned it for years. And then at some point, their passion for each other simply could no longer be denied. There was nothing for it; his time with Douglass had run its course
and now she must go. He would not be gainsaid; he simply must have Lettice, and all that having her meant to him.

  Douglass had a habit of running to him and throwing her arms about his neck. She had not Lettice’s cold dignity! Such a display had amused him at first, but after a while…a very short while…he had begun to find her cloying affections irritating. He was careful never to show her that he felt this way, but now such reticence was no longer necessary. He was finished with her.

  “My sweet love!” she cried, as she lifted her skirts and began her headlong flight down the garden path to where he stood. Had she been more full of guile, she might have recognized that he did not respond in kind. And this time as she approached him, it was all he could do not to recoil from her. As she made to encircle his neck, he held out his hands and caught her arms.

  “I must speak with you,” he said.

  “Why,” she exclaimed with a smile, “what a greeting!” But he did not smile; he did not evince even the forced smile she had become accustomed to, and that she had always attributed to his natural self-possession. It was a smile that never touched his eyes; and today, she had not even that. A warning bell rang in her head. It did not help that little Robert always appeared to be over-awed by his august father. Robert had always, now that she thought of it, seemed to hold his son at arm’s length.

  Just then Robert’s nursemaid appeared; it was understood that as soon as the earl arrived, he and Douglass would repair to the bed chamber. And so his coming always precipitated certain activities. When they arrived in the bedchamber, there would be cold meats, fruit and cheese, wine, should the earl be hungry; the child would be seen to. But Robert made no move to assuage his lust. If indeed he felt any! She knew what went on at court, and that he was never faithful. It was too much to be expected that he would be. But he had up until now at least shown a flattering desire for her bed upon his arrival. Was she reading his signals correctly? If so, what had changed?

  Robert clasped her arms by the wrists and gently but firmly held her away. There was no easy way to impart that which he had come to say. Perhaps the sharp knife cut was kindest in the end.

  “Here it is,” he said, far more gruffly than he had intended. “I shall give you seven hundred pounds a year. That ought to be more than ample. The boy shall come with me; he must be made to become a man.”

  Douglass blinked; her mind slipped sideways for a moment, and she swayed. Robert still held her wrists, steadying her.

  Certainly what he had said was a shock, but there was nothing for it. His mind was made up and nothing would change it. He must cast Douglass and her brat aside and marry Lettice. They had waited long enough; years! They had waited the obligatory time that allowed Lettice to observe a modicum of mourning for her dead husband. But now it was time to move forward, and to do that, Douglass must be cast aside. It was the only way. His marriage to Douglass was not recognized at court, and many called his son bastard. Even had the scheme to marry the boy to the Lady Arabella Stuart borne fruit, it was unlikely that the girl would ever be queen. He had been blinded by his ambition, drawn into a plan that was, in the harsh light of day, simply unrealistic. Bess was welcome to pursue her dream of a throne for her granddaughter; he wanted no part of it. He wanted Lettice; he wanted an indisputably legitimate son to inherit his wealth and title. The relationship with Douglass had been tainted from the start, and must now be dissolved.

  As understanding dawned on Douglass’s face, he observed her visage change subtly from the pale whiteness of an imminent swoon to the red of anger. Her eyes, at first glistening with tears, now narrowed in impotent fury. What, after all, could she do? The answer was, nothing.

  “You shall not!” she cried. “I say, you shall not throw me away as if I were a soiled clout! We were married in the sight of God, and you cannot undo that, sir! And Robert is far too young to be taken from me!”

  She had been struggling against his iron grip, but once she had spoken her angry words, she seemed to go limp in his grasp. She collapsed onto a garden bench and began to weep inconsolably.

  Robert removed his sword belt and sat down beside her. “Douglass,” he said. “Be reasonable. Our marriage has been no marriage. You know it as well as I. You sought me out simply to discomfit Frances. No, do not deny it, for I know it to be true.”

  Through her hiccoughing Douglass managed a gasped breath. “H-how could you k-know such a th-thing?”

  “I heard the words from your own lips.”

  Douglass let out a sigh that sounded like a bellows. Eavesdropping! God knew that she had done her own share of it in her lifetime. She had said as much, to more than one person. Where had he, or his spy!…been concealed, she wondered, that he had come to know of her incautious words?

  “That m-may have b-been true in the beginning,” she stammered. “But…”

  “Ah, Douglass,” he said. “I beg of you, do not. I have never meant as much to you as calling yourself Countess of Leicester, even if you have been able to do so only in front of a handful of servants.”

  How well he knew her! Perhaps it was true. She and her sister, Frances Howard, had once been in the throes of a passionate, all-consuming lust for the Earl of Leicester; it had developed into a vicious competition for his favors. Frances had lost and Robert was hers. They had left the court, married secretly, and had a son. But because they had broken the law in not seeking the queen’s permission to marry, she had been banished from court. It was so unfair! She had imagined herself in the thick of things at court, flaunting her new title and the jewels she had expected Robert to bestow upon her. But she had woefully miscalculated. Robert had been allowed to return to court, but she never had. Her cousin Elizabeth was a bridge she had burnt in the name of her desire for Robert, never to be recovered, it seemed. And she did love him. God help her! When had it happened? With the birth of her child? She knew not when the triumph of her petty victory over her sister had changed into genuine affection for the subject of their endless rivalry. But it had, and now she had lost him, along with her reputation. Few believed that they were married, and that her son, and his heir!...was legitimate in the eyes of God.

  Seven hundred a year. It was a princely sum. And it would go further if little Robert were placed with a likely family to be made into the nobleman he must become. For she meant to see to it that he inherited. No matter what children were born to Robert in the future, her Robert was the Earl of Leicester’s firstborn son. Her mind raced. She had no papers, she could not recall the name of the prelate who had married them. Had Robert deliberately kept these things from her against this day?

  Suddenly understanding dawned once again.

  “It is Lettice, isn’t it?” she cried. “All this time it has been Lettice!”

  It was useless to deny it; all the world would know at some point. But pray God, not yet! Not until he had found some way to make Elizabeth understand. Well, Douglass was banished from court and any rumor-mongering on her part should be chalked up to so many sour grapes. But he had learnt never to give his opponent a weapon to use against him. Indignant denial was best.

  “I have no idea what you mean,” he said. “The Countess of Essex is the cousin of the queen, and is in mourning for her dead husband. There has never been anything between us save friendship.”

  Douglass ran her hand under her runny nose, wiped the result on her bodice and used the heel of her hand to wipe the tears from her eyes. Some women were able to cry beautifully, but Douglass Howard was certainly not amongst them!

  “What utter nonsense!” she cried. She could see it all now. The constant journeying to wherever the Countess of Essex happened to be, but all in the queen’s name, of course! But even as she made to retort, she noticed the stone cold look in Robert’s eyes. Suddenly she knew with a deadly certainty that there would be no changing his mind.

  “Very well,” she said. “But I want a thousand a year, and Robert bides with me until his sixth birthday.”

  Robert slapped his kne
e. “Done!” he cried. He had known she would come around. He was well aware that Douglass believed she was in love with him, but for himself, he doubted it. Soon she would, too, and then all would be well.

  Chapter 22

  “Like sparkling gems her virtue draws the sight,

  And in her conduct she is always bright,

  When she imparts her thoughts, her words have force

  And sense and wisdom flow in sweet discourse.”

  -Sir Philip Sidney, from a masque written for Queen Elizabeth

  Westminster Palace, June 1578

  E lizabeth regarded with great satisfaction the walls of the King’s Painted Chamber. This was the room in which she had bided in the days before her coronation. This beautiful room had been her father’s, and was made to his great measure after fire had damaged part of the palace when he was still a young man. That was long before he met her mother, but she still liked to believe that they had lain here together when they were young and in love. She studied the murals that gave the room its fanciful name. Along with the religious themes, there were paintings of her forebears. The room had once been used as a Presence Chamber; perhaps the murals were meant to impress the many envoys who had once visited a long line of kings here.

  The magnificent bed sported its springtime trappings; the fabrics were light and airy, unlike the heavy velvets and brocades of fall and winter. The curtains were crimson damask; they were lined with light blue silk that resembled the sky on a spring day. Silky Turkey carpets graced the floor. The sun’s rays slanting in through the great windows glinted on the golden and silver threads with which the hangings were embroidered. The windows had been thrown open wide to the lovely weather, and the effect as the curtains undulated in the warm, gentle breeze was hypnotic.