by Weir, Alison
‘You heard what my Commons said,’ she began, as she and Robert strolled along a path that led down towards the River Thames. ‘God’s blood, I do not see how I can marry and stay a queen! The husband holds dominion over the wife, the queen holds dominion over her subjects.’ She turned to face him. ‘Robert, you know better than most what my life was like before God brought me a crown. I am free at last of all those who put me in danger or forced me to do what I did not want to do. I do not have to tread warily any more. I like my power. I feel liberated. But what power, what freedom would I have if I married, tell me?’
‘That would depend on whom you married,’ Robert said, after considering for a moment. ‘Some men would consider themselves sufficiently lucky to win your sacred person, and would not ask for more.’
‘Knowing men, I doubt it,’ Elizabeth snorted.
‘Then, Bess, may I suggest that you have not known the right men,’ Robert ventured.
‘Aye, maybe I have not,’ she said, considering, refusing to take his bait. ‘But I need my councillors to understand that I have found the celibate life to be rather agreeable – and perhaps, Robin, as one who knows them well, you could convey that for me – and repeat it whenever the opportunity arises. I grow weary of wrangling with Cecil on the issue.’
‘He cannot comprehend why you do not wish to wed, Bess. And, to be plain, neither can I.’
Elizabeth stopped. She looked distressed. ‘I cannot explain, Robin. I can only say that I would rather enter a convent or suffer death than be forced to renounce my virginity.’
Robert looked at her with sympathy, but there was a degree of scepticism in his gaze. There had been gossip that she was no virgin. He had wondered about that, the prospect arousing excitement in him rather than disapproval. Now here she was, saying she would rather die than marry – and she was not joking.
‘Sit with me, Bess,’ he invited, offering his arm and leading her to a bench in an arbour that would be shady in spring. ‘You have confided in me thus far, and you know I would never betray that confidence. What is it you fear?’
‘There are reasons I could not divulge to my twin soul,’ Elizabeth said. She was trembling, and not with cold.
‘Bess, we two are twin souls. We have both been through so much. I know what you have suffered.’
‘Not all of it,’ she retorted.
‘Of course not. Who can look into another’s heart? And I suspect this goes back a long way. I remember when you were eight, and told me then that you would never marry.’
‘That was when my third stepmother, Katherine Howard, was executed. Young as I was, I knew what adultery and treason were. I had been early schooled in such matters.’ Her tone was bitter.
‘Because of your mother.’
‘Yes. You were a man when your father went to the block, Robin. I was not three years old when my mother died, and not much older when I found out the reasons why. It was a hard burden to grow up with. I shudder to remember the nightmares I had. And when Katherine Howard was executed, the horror of it hit me all over again and I fell to thinking once more about my mother, only my thoughts were more gruesome than before, as there was plenty of talk and gossip to bring home to me the reality of beheading. And if I felt bad, think of my father! He suffered all kinds of trials and torments with his marriages. I had stepmother after stepmother. Two died in childbed. Others in my family, and among my nobility, have been entangled in matrimonial disputes. Surely you can see why it is impossible for me to regard marriage with equanimity or see it as a secure state.’
‘Do you fear childbirth?’
‘Aye, I don’t mind admitting that.’ It seemed the most natural thing to be discussing such matters with Robin. ‘My physician once told me that it would not be easy for me. Ever since then …’ She shied from the humiliating memory; Dr Huick had terrified her to the point where she felt she could never risk a pregnancy. ‘I also fear that bearing children would put a bridle on my queenship. I would be out of action, out of control. Others might try to wrest power from me.’
‘That fear is understandable,’ Robert said. He laid his hand gently on hers. ‘But I for one would not let them, and I know I speak for many.’ He squeezed her fingers for emphasis, then regarded her with compassion – and something else. ‘Bess, what is it you will not – or cannot – admit?’
‘That I will not tell you or anyone else.’ Reluctantly, Elizabeth moved her hand away.
‘Is it the act of procreation?’ he asked. She turned her head sharply towards him.
‘Robin, you presume too much!’
‘Come, Bess, you were ever plain in your speech, and no shrinking maiden. I have heard you swear with the best of them. If I presume, it is because I want to help you.’
She felt as if she was melting inside. For all her fears, there was something very wonderful about having Robert comfort her like this. How easy it would be to lay her head on his broad brocaded shoulder and surrender to his reassurances. It occurred to her that she would not protest – or not very much – if he attempted to kiss her. Despite herself, his talk of sex excited her. She wanted him – even as she feared him. But confide in him she could not. She dared trust no one, even Robin. There remained in her head the memory of that other – another dark-eyed charmer.
‘You have helped me,’ she said firmly. ‘And now I must go and give audience to the Spanish ambassador.’
Count de Feria stood again before her, bowing low. She had done her best to avoid him these past weeks, to make it clear she would not be ruled by Spain, but she could not go on doing that for ever. King Philip must not be offended.
She had chosen to receive the Count in her privy chamber. It was a privilege, for access was permitted only to those sufficiently great or favoured, and most ambassadors never got beyond the presence chamber next door. But behind the throne in the privy chamber was Hans Holbein’s massive mural of Elizabeth’s immediate forebears: her grandparents, Henry VII with Elizabeth of York, for whom she was named; and, in the foreground, her father, Henry VIII, with Jane Seymour, who had borne him his longed-for son, Edward VI. The majestic figure of King Henry loomed massively over the room, overawing all who beheld it. One visitor had confessed to the Queen that he had felt abashed and annihilated standing before it. That was just how Elizabeth intended Feria to feel.
‘Your Majesty, I bring a very special message from my master,’ he began, looking up nervously at the wall behind her, as if he expected Bluff King Hal to come leaping out of it, roaring his disapproval of an alliance between England and Spain and brandishing an order for Feria’s arrest.
Oh no, Elizabeth thought, even as she smiled in apparently joyful anticipation of the special message.
Feria recovered himself and spoke with a flourish: ‘King Philip hopes that your Majesty will see fit to continue in the alliance between our two kingdoms, and that you will consent to become his wife.’
Elizabeth was not often at a loss for words, but she struggled to find them now, and to keep the smile fixed on her face. Feria was staring at her, clearly disconcerted by her silence and trying not to look at the terrifying figure of her father.
‘I am overwhelmed by his Majesty’s proposal, and I thank him for it,’ she said at last. ‘He must understand, however, that I am torn between the need to marry and my desire to maintain my virginity. There are many great and good reasons for this alliance, so I will give the matter due consideration, after taking advice from my councillors. But it may be that God will direct me to live a virtuous but celibate life.’
Feria was now looking angry, but Elizabeth stood her ground. If he thought she was going to enlarge on the honour Philip thought he was doing her, he was mistaken. Bed with that cold haddock? Never!
‘If your Majesty does not marry and produce an heir to sit on England’s throne,’ the ambassador said bluntly, ‘the King of France will surely rise against you and place Mary Stuart there instead.’
‘God’s teeth,’ Elizabeth exploded, r
ising to her feet, and looking very much like her august sire above her. ‘I will teach King Henri a lesson if he so much as dares to try, and that mewling daughter-in-law of his as well. The French and the Scots have never given up conspiring against England. Why should I fear them? Have you forgotten how we trounced them at Agincourt and Flodden? Let them come, and be humiliated before Christendom!’ She was breathless with indignation, and sank down into her chair. Feria was astounded: were all Englishwomen this savage? He thought nervously of his feisty new English wife, wondering if she might turn out like this. On balance, he thought not. It was probably not being married that did it. He wished he could go home.
‘I need time to consider King Philip’s proposal,’ Elizabeth said, calmer now. ‘I will speak with you again in a few days.’ And she left the ambassador quaking in his elegant Spanish leather shoes.
Although Elizabeth knew that she should be considering Philip’s offer, she found her thoughts constantly straying to Robert Dudley. Seated on her chair of estate and constrained by the formality of her presence chamber, she found her eyes wandering in his direction. Her heart now raced when she saw him about the court, and she felt ridiculously disappointed when he did not attend her or seek her out. On the few-and-far-between occasions when he begged leave to make a brief visit to his wife, she was unaccountably consumed with jealousy, and often made a fuss about keeping him at court.
She took to summoning him to her privy chamber on the pretext of discussing some affair of state or other, and when it pleased her she took his advice. Cecil did not like it; he hated Dudley. The fellow was above himself already, and he had no official position to merit his advice being given.
‘He is the son and grandson of traitors,’ he warned Elizabeth, ‘and he is ambitious. Mark me, Madam, he will make trouble for you!’
‘Poof,’ scorned Elizabeth. ‘Think you I know not how to handle him? I have every right to ask my advisers for their opinions. I summon you at night and ask you for yours, William, don’t I?’
Cecil gave a sigh of exasperation. ‘Madam, by your good grace, I am one of your councillors; Lord Robert is not. The advice I give you is for the good of yourself and your realm, as you enjoined me. Robert Dudley’s advice will be for the benefit of Robert Dudley.’
‘God’s blood, William, allow me some good judgement of my own!’ Elizabeth erupted. ‘You let your prejudice against Robert colour your perceptions. I assure you, he is very warm to my service.’
‘And would be in other ways,’ Cecil could not resist adding.
‘I know not of what you speak,’ she retorted. But she did – and the knowledge that others believed that Robert desired her made her heart glow.
Feria’s manner was stiff when Elizabeth next summoned him to her presence. She pretended not to notice.
‘There are difficulties with this marriage,’ she said briskly. ‘King Philip was my sister’s husband. That places us within the forbidden degrees of consanguinity.’
‘His Majesty anticipates that his Holiness the Pope would be accommodating in that respect,’ Feria said smoothly.
Elizabeth had no intention of allowing the Pope to involve himself in English affairs. Even now, Parliament was preparing the legislation that would establish the Protestant Church of England, with herself, and not the Pontiff, as its Supreme Governor. Her realm would never again bend the knee to Rome. For now, though, she must be diplomatic. Who knew whether the forces of Catholic Europe would rise against her?
‘My lord Count, you are forgetting that in England, such unions are forbidden,’ she pointed out. ‘My father, of blessed memory, put away Katherine of Aragon because she had been his brother’s wife, and the English Church declared their union to be incestuous and unlawful. Thus it is likely that this marriage would be disputed here, and I would never accept a Papal decree that contravened the word of God. So you see, I could not marry my sister’s husband without dishonouring my father’s memory.’
Feria clearly did not see, judging by his expression.
‘All is not lost,’ Elizabeth went on, more kindly. ‘You have my promise that I will lay the matter before Parliament. In the meantime, I should like you to assure King Philip that, if I marry at all, I should prefer to take him before all others.’ Unbidden, Robert Dudley’s face came to mind. She thrust the image aside. That could never be.
As she had expected, her councillors were hot against the Spanish marriage.
‘How can your Majesty even contemplate it?’
‘It was your sister’s undoing!’
‘Madam, it provoked a rebellion that nearly cost Queen Mary her crown, and yours is by no means secure.’ That was Cecil.
Elizabeth did her best to calm them all. ‘I will do nothing contrary to England’s interests,’ she assured them. ‘My father and mother were mere English, and not of Spain, as my late sister was. Surely you agree that it would not be politic to turn down King Philip when we need his friendship in the face of French hostility? Let us give Feria cause to hope that he may receive a favourable answer.’
When Robert next returned to court after a rare visit to his wife, Elizabeth, come in procession from the Chapel Royal to her presence chamber following Sunday morning service, saw at once that he was downcast.
‘What ails you, Robin?’ she asked. ‘You were not paying attention to the sermon, and that is not like you.’
‘It is nothing, Madam,’ he replied.
‘Nothing does not wear a gloomy frown and a sad countenance,’ she said.
‘Believe me, Madam, it is nothing,’ Robert repeated, a touch irritable.
Elizabeth walked away, chin high, heart sinking. He did not want her any more. His wife had used her wiles on him, no doubt. She wondered, as she had so often wondered before, how things stood between those two. Robert had been spending so much time at court that she had come to believe that Amy meant no more to him than his favourite horse, but maybe she had been wrong. Maybe ambition overcame all other considerations, and his wife understood that he had to be at court in order to seek rewards and preferment, and to perform his official duties. Maybe – God forbid – he loved his wife!
She tried to settle with a book. It was her habit, if she could snatch the time, to spend three hours each day reading about history, and it was one of her great pleasures, but today Herodotus’s words merely danced before her eyes, so that she feared she might be coming down with a megrim.
She felt deeply agitated. She had to know what was troubling Robert, she could not leave it. Laying her book down, she summoned a very dubious Kat and bade her accompany her to Lord Robert’s lodging. His face when he opened the door was a joy to behold.
‘Bess!’ he said unthinkingly, his eyes lighting up. ‘This is a great honour.’
‘Oh, poof,’ she retorted. ‘I came to have the truth from you. Something is wrong. Kat, wait here while I talk with Lord Robert.’ And she shut the door in Kat’s disapproving – and now outraged – face.
Courtier lodgings were always cramped, and although Robert’s was one of the best, it was packed with his furniture and gear, leaving little room to move; but there was a fine oak chair and Elizabeth appropriated it, removing the Protestant tract that lay open there and leaving her host to perch on a stool.
‘Calvin, I see,’ she said. ‘Institutes of the Christian Religion.’
‘It is about attaining salvation, and a vindication of those who have died for their faith,’ Robert told her.
‘I know. I have read it. I do not agree with all his points.’
‘No, but they are worthy of debate.’
There was a pause.
‘Now,’ she said, ‘the truth.’
‘I fear my wife is very ill,’ Robert said, after some hesitation. ‘I did not like to trouble you with my personal affairs, seeing that you carry so many burdens of your own.’
‘You are my good friend, Robert. Whatever affects you affects me. What ails your wife?’
‘A malady in her breast,’ he
replied. ‘There is a lump. It has been getting larger for some time, but now it looks very nasty and is causing her much pain. She has lost weight, and she is terrified lest her sickness is mortal. She cries constantly. I do not know what to say to her.’
Elizabeth had known two women who’d suffered from such an illness, and both of them had died. Could Amy Dudley be dying? God forgive me, she thought, shocked at her inward – and uncharitable – response to Robert’s words. I must not exult in my rival’s illness. Her rival? She pulled herself up mentally. Had it come to that?
‘Has she seen a physician?’ she asked.
‘She refuses, although I have begged her.’
‘Then I will send Dr Huicke to her.’
‘Bess, she will not see him. She is too terrified of what any doctor might say. And if this is what she and I both fear it is, then there is no remedy.’ He buried his face in his hands.
‘I am sorry for you both,’ Elizabeth said, and laid her hand gently on his shoulder. The effect was astonishing. Robert looked up; his eyes met hers; and then she was in his arms and he was kissing her hungrily, as if he would devour her. No man had kissed her like that these ten years and more. It felt sublime – as if she had been born for this moment. She wanted it to go on for ever … And then her body responded, quite naturally, and, in fright, she drew back.
‘Forgive me, Bess,’ Robert breathed, startled. ‘I presumed too much, but you were so kind – and I was so fraught that I forgot myself …’
‘There is nothing to forgive,’ Elizabeth said, dismayed at the conflict within herself.
Robert’s eyes held hers, even as his arms still encircled her. ‘I have loved you for so long,’ he breathed. ‘Ever since that day I saw you in the Tower, when we were both prisoners. But I know I have no right. You are the Queen, and far above me now; and I am married.’
‘The one is surmountable, if I will it so; the other is not.’ She was horrified to feel a treacherous sense of relief at that.