by Weir, Alison
Cecil frowned. ‘Have you discounted the likelihood that it was an accident?’
‘If it was, it was a timely one,’ Elizabeth said. ‘And something struck me as very strange: the fact that Lady Dudley was so earnest to have her servants go to the fair, and became angry with those who insisted on staying. It was as if she wanted everyone out of the house for some secret purpose of her own.’
Cecil was silent for a few moments. ‘I have heard tales about her that make me think she was strange in her mind. What of the testimony of her maid, who said that Lady Dudley was on her knees every day, begging God to deliver her from desperation?’
‘You think she took her own life?’ Elizabeth was amazed.
‘Imagine, Madam, that you are ill, in much pain, and expecting death daily. You are alone and forsaken, your lord being continually away at court.’ Elizabeth stirred at the implied criticism, but let it go. Cecil went on: ‘You are deeply disturbed in your mind. You might take an easy way out, and make sure that no one is there to stop you.’
‘But it is not an easy way!’ she cried. ‘It means eternal damnation. Who would willingly be cast out for ever from the sight of God for the sake of a few more days’ suffering on Earth? Nay, William, there is more to this – there has to be. Mayhap Lady Dudley wanted people out of the way because she was expecting a visitor – the man who murdered her.’
‘Madam, this is pure speculation,’ Cecil answered, a trifle testily. ‘There is no evidence for it.’
‘William, by all reports she was intent on being left alone on that fatal afternoon. She was insistent that her people went to the fair, and angry when some wanted to stay behind. Why? She might well have planned a secret meeting with the person who killed her. The house was mostly deserted that afternoon. The murderer could have come, done his work and departed, unseen by anyone else.’
Cecil was adamant. ‘Again, this is supposition, Madam. The evidence strongly suggests that Lady Dudley killed herself.’
‘We cannot rule out any possibility,’ Elizabeth insisted. ‘God grant that the coroner reaches his verdict soon. Then the truth will be known.’
The coroner had spoken: Amy Dudley’s death had been an accident.
‘His ruling leaves no room for doubt,’ Elizabeth declared to Cecil, considerably lighter in spirits.
‘It certainly does not,’ Cecil agreed, looking – much to her gratification – agreeably relieved. ‘But still Lord Robert is not satisfied. He is adamant that his wife was murdered, and he has pressed for a second jury to be empanelled, to determine who was responsible.’
‘No,’ Elizabeth said firmly. ‘One inquest is sufficient. If the death was accidental, no one was responsible, so there is no need for further investigation. The matter is closed.’
She ordered court mourning for Amy – one had to observe the formalities – and commanded Robert back to court at once. He came as fast as a falcon in full flight, but she saw before her a man chastened and much tried, struggling to recover his equanimity.
‘God be praised that your name has been cleared!’ she cried, as they embraced in the privacy of her chamber.
‘All I care about is that I am restored to your favour,’ Robert said huskily, holding her close as if he would never let her go.
‘You are, you are, my sweet Eyes,’ she breathed, ‘and thankfully the matter is now closed.’
‘Alas, Bess, I fear it never will be,’ Robert murmured. ‘Until Amy’s murderer is found, I will not be exonerated. As I came through the court I was aware of people watching me, whispering behind their hands.’
Elizabeth stiffened. She was all too aware that he spoke the truth. Only this morning the Council had received a letter from a Puritan minister urging them to order an earnest searching and trying of the truth, since his part of the country was alive with dangerous and grievous suspicions about Lady Dudley’s death. His was not a lone voice. The courtiers had tried and condemned Robert with themselves as jury and judge.
She drew away. Her greatest fear was that she herself would be seen as complicit in the murder of one who was perceived to be her rival, and that she would thereby lose the love of her subjects – the most precious jewel in her crown, as she was fond of putting it. It occurred to her that monarchs had lost their thrones for less, and she was a female ruler in a precarious, insecure position. Merely associating with Robert now could catapult her on a headlong course to ruin.
But Robert had other ideas. ‘Marry me, Bess,’ he said urgently. ‘Proclaim to the world that you believe in my innocence!’
‘And put my crown in jeopardy?’ she flung back, distress making her vehement. ‘If you think our marrying will stop the rumours, you are more stupid than ever I took you for. Robin, it will fuel them! People are saying that you murdered your wife so that you could have me.’
‘We could wait a decent interval,’ he replied.
‘I assure you that will make no difference.’
‘Then what future is there for us?’
‘What future can there be?’ Elizabeth burst out, angry now. ‘How many times have I told you that I have no wish to marry? When will you believe it?’
Robert laid hold of her and crushed her to his chest. ‘It is your womanly fears that speak, is it not? Think you I cannot help you overcome them?’ His voice was urgent.
‘Robin,’ Elizabeth protested, struggling free, ‘don’t you think I would overcome them if I could? It is no joy to me, living with such terrors.’
‘Methinks you will only conquer them by facing them. Then they will lose their power to frighten you.’
‘Ah, Robin, you are become a philosopher. But you think only of one difficulty. I have other objections against marriage, remember, aside from this latest tangle.’
‘Excuses, excuses! You are all excuses!’ he erupted. ‘You enjoy playing games, admit it. You want men fawning over you, competing for your hand. It suits your vanity to have it so!’
‘How dare you!’ Elizabeth snarled.
‘I dare because you have permitted me to dare much else!’ Robert flung back. ‘I am a man, Bess, with a man’s needs. How much longer do you think I will be prepared to play your games? I want you, and I will have you!’
‘You presume too much!’ she spat.
‘Like Admiral Seymour?’ he countered, and she felt herself flush with anger and – it had to be admitted – shame.
‘That was ungallant of you,’ she hissed, turning away from him.
Robert took her hand, instantly contrite. ‘Forgive me, Bess, that was unworthy of me – but it rankles that you gave yourself to him, and will not give yourself to me.’
Elizabeth felt the familiar fears encroaching, threatening to consume her. ‘I was young and inexperienced. I was not a queen with a reputation to protect. Robin, if I fall from grace, my enemies will pounce. I do not fear pregnancy just because it could kill me; I fear the scandal and ruin it would bring me.’
‘Then marry me!’
‘Have you not listened?’ Elizabeth roared. ‘God’s blood, am I surrounded by fools? I – do – not – want – to – marry!’
‘Then sleep alone in future,’ Robert retorted, furious, and turned on his heel to go.
Elizabeth saw red. He had pre-empted her; in her fit of pique, she had been about to forbid him her bed. But instead he had rejected her! Not to be borne!
‘Oh, I intend to!’ she shouted. But when the door banged behind him, she fell into a storm of weeping.
Elizabeth sat at the head of the council board. She knew she looked unwell and heavy-eyed. Small wonder, as she had not slept much these past few weeks. The situation was worse than she had feared. All over the kingdom, irate clerics were thundering from their pulpits that the death of Lady Dudley was prejudicial to the honour of the Queen, and that something must be done to bring the culprit to justice. The scandal was the talk of Europe, with the most unfavourable conclusions being drawn and chewed over in every court, tavern and hovel. It was disturbingly clea
r that most people thought that Elizabeth had colluded with Lady Dudley’s husband in her murder. Even Kat’s husband, John Astley, had been banished the court for speaking his mind about Dudley, and of course the Queen of Scots had weighed in, cattily announcing that the Queen of England was to marry her horse-keeper, who had killed his wife to make room for her. Cecil had blushed when he read Elizabeth that report.
Once again he had been extraordinarily sympathetic, yet he had not shied from his duty.
‘Our Protestant allies abroad are appalled at the rumours,’ he told her. ‘They fear you are hell-bent on self-destruction.’ That had alarmed her, as had Bishop de Quadra’s icy mien. Clearly the Bishop thought her guilty. Well, he would. She was a heretic in his eyes, and therefore capable of anything.
Robert had come begging forgiveness, his expression as appealing as a dog in disgrace, and she had graciously granted it, but she was finding it hard to forget what he had said to her. Even so, she wanted him near her. The sight of him still made her catch her breath. He was the very fabric of life to her, and she knew, as surely as she had faith in God, that she could not live without him. But although she kept him with her as often as she dared by day, at night she insisted on sleeping alone. What it cost her – all those fretful, wakeful hours, the books she had tried and failed to read, the times she had barely stopped herself from knocking on his door – he would never know, but she dared not risk any further scandal. She had enough to deal with as it was.
Throckmorton had sent his secretary, Robert Jones, over from Paris to ask the Council how he should counter the gossip; it was rife there also. Elizabeth sharply told Jones he had had no need to come.
‘Madam,’ he replied, ‘there is every necessity for my being here. If your Majesty marries Lord Robert it would be folly.’
‘Enough!’ she exploded, outraged at such presumption. Clearly the man had more courage than sense. How dare he! She glowered at him. ‘I have heard this before, and it does not behove you, a subject, to say it to me.’
Faltering, but undeterred, Jones persisted. ‘But Madam, may I remind you that Lord Robert was involved in the plot to set Lady Jane Grey on the throne? That was treason. If he was capable of that, think what else he might be capable of.’
Elizabeth suddenly burst out laughing, but there was no real mirth in it. Jones was shocked. In his experience monarchs did not behave with such levity. It must be something to do with the Queen being a woman. Probably the wrong time of the month.
‘Madam,’ he ventured, more cautiously now, ‘I hesitate to repeat to you what is being said in France about your Majesty and Lord Robert.’
‘There is no need,’ Elizabeth replied, composing herself. ‘The matter has been tried and found to be contrary to what has been reported. You shall say that to anyone who repeats these vile calumnies. May I remind you that Lord Robert was at court when his wife died? None of his people were present at the attempt at her house, and things have fallen out in a way that should touch neither my lord’s honesty nor my honour.’
Jones swooped. ‘So your Majesty believes that there was an attempt on her life?’ he persisted.
‘I meant, if attempt there was,’ Elizabeth said hastily. If she was honest with herself, she thought, there probably had been. Amy’s death had been all too timely. Not for herself – she had never had any intention of marrying Robert – and not for Robert, for the rumours had effectively crushed his hopes. But someone had probably thought he was doing them both a service. Notwithstanding, none of the inquiries made by the coroner, Amy’s family and Robert’s friends had unearthed any clues. If there had been an assassin, he had left no trace. Maybe Amy’s death had been accidental after all. It was conceivable that she had just tripped and fallen – a simple accident as the coroner had concluded. So why did Elizabeth have trouble believing that?
‘Madam, it is not too late to revive negotiations for a match with the Archduke or the Earl of Arran,’ Cecil said hopefully, clearly itching to draw up a marriage treaty. They were alone in the council chamber, the other councillors having dispersed with the obnoxious Jones. ‘It would be a sure way of giving the lie to rumour.’ And it would put paid to Dudley swaggering pridefully around the court, over-confident as ever and seemingly impervious to the gossip.
‘I will think on it,’ Elizabeth replied, a glint of tetchiness in her eyes.
‘I trust that your Majesty has given up all thought of wedding Lord Robert,’ Cecil said gently. He needed her to say it, for his own peace of mind.
‘My judgement is not that addled, William,’ she retorted. ‘I am sensible of my duties and obligations.’
‘Madam, might I venture to ask that you make that clear to Lord Robert?’ Cecil suggested. That would put an end to the man’s posturing.
‘I have already done so,’ she told him. Cecil looked doubtful, and he had even more cause to be when, only weeks later, Elizabeth announced that she intended to elevate Robert to the peerage. The peerage? What had the man done to deserve that? He was a proven traitor who might or might not have murdered his wife. Was that now a qualification for nobility? Cecil shook his head, and kept on shaking it.
Predictably, as Robert, in the wake of the Queen’s announcement, was seen to preen and wax ever more conceited, there was a fresh wave of rumours. Her Majesty would give him a dukedom. No, it was a barony. Was she paying him off or paving the way for greater things? More likely she did really mean to marry him after all. The two of them thought they had got away with it, did they?
The day set for the ceremony of investiture arrived. As the councillors and courtiers gathered, curiosity getting the better of disdain, Robert entered the presence chamber, resplendent in a dazzling new suit of clothes, and knelt before the throne.
‘The coronet today, the crown tomorrow,’ Bacon murmured in Cecil’s ear.
‘I think not,’ Cecil smiled.
Bacon gave him a quizzical look. Did Cecil know something he didn’t?
Elizabeth rose from her throne. A page brought her the Letters Patent of nobility. A second stood by bearing the scarlet robes of estate furred with ermine; a third carried the coronet on a velvet cushion.
Elizabeth took the patent and studied it for a while. The courtiers grew restive. Robert shifted his weight from knee to knee, for he was becoming numb. Suddenly the Queen drew her small jewelled knife from its sheath on her girdle and, to the astonishment of all present, sliced the parchment across. Slash, slash. The courtiers gaped. Robert stared at her in horror. How in God’s name could she humiliate him thus, in the presence of many of his enemies?
‘I have decided,’ she said, looking up, but not at Robert, ‘that I will not have another Dudley in the House of Lords, bearing in mind that this family have been traitors to the Crown for three generations. I thank you all for your attendance here today. You have my leave to depart.’
There was an excited explosion of whispering before the company began to file reluctantly away. It was only the Queen’s presence, and her gimlet eyes boring into their backs, that kept the courtiers from breaking out in frenzied chatter. Only Robert stood his ground, glowering, furious.
‘Good God, Bess! How could you do this?’ he exploded.
‘I have to make it clear to the world that I have no intention of advancing and marrying you,’ Elizabeth said, her voice steady. Still she would not meet his eyes.
‘I beg you not to abuse me thus in front of your courtiers, Madam. I do not deserve it. I cannot allow you to do this.’
She did look at him then. In fact, to his utter confusion, she stepped down from the dais and patted him playfully on the cheek.
‘No, I should have remembered, the Dudleys are not so easily overthrown. But there is no “cannot allow” about it, Robin. I am the Queen, and people must see that I am in control. This is a sure way of putting an end to the gossip.’
‘Then is it worth my hoping that things will change in the future?’ His voice was taut with anger, hurt and frustration.
‘Anything is possible,’ she said lightly, and swept out of the room, surprising her clustering courtiers, who were huddling and whispering just outside the door. She sailed on, a smile playing on her lips.
Her ploy worked. Within a month the gossip had died down, even though Robert remained at her side, ardent and attentive. She had exactly what she wanted now: his company, his love, the mere heart-melting sight of him, and the promise of his arms around her at night if she so pleased (which she did not, or not yet). He was her consort in all but name. She wondered if she had ever really desired more.
Bishop de Quadra had finally thawed somewhat. She enjoyed baiting him, leading him to believe she was still interested in taking the Archduke, then hinting that she might marry Robert after all.
‘It might please me to advance him,’ she declared, a twinkle in her eye. ‘I must confess to you, Bishop, that I am no angel, and I do not deny that I have an affection for him, for the many good qualities he possesses. I do see daily more clearly the necessity for marriage, and to satisfy the English humour it seems I must marry an Englishman. Tell me, what would King Philip think if I married one of my servants?’
Quadra answered stiffly, ‘My master would be pleased to hear of your marriage, whoever your Majesty chooses, as it is important for the welfare of your kingdom. His Majesty, I feel sure, would be happy to hear of Lord Robert’s good fortune.’ Happy too, no doubt, at the prospect of the heretic Elizabeth’s reign not long surviving her wedding.
The Queen inclined her head graciously.
‘But is Your Majesty truly satisfied that Lord Robert’s wife’s death was an accident?’ the Bishop ventured. There was much more that he could have said, and would have liked to have said, but the rules of diplomacy prevented him.
‘There is no question of it,’ Elizabeth said, her voice suddenly sharp as steel. ‘And had the poor lady not fallen, she would have died anyway. She was mortally ill with a malady in her breast.’