The Marriage Game: A Novel of Elizabeth I

by Weir, Alison

  While seeking to quell the confusion in his heart, he knew that he had to be extremely careful. Elizabeth had already remarked upon the catfights between Douglass and Frances.

  ‘They keep squabbling over some fool who had the poor sense to come after them both,’ she’d said. ‘Well, I’ll not put up with it. If they can’t behave as young ladies should, I will send them home.’

  Robert looked at her furtively. There was no hint that she was baiting him. He thought that she had not guessed who the fool in question was, and that pursuing Douglass would prove to be a risky enterprise.

  He made it his business to warn first Douglass, then Frances, to cease their spatting, but he could not stop the rumours that were somehow now proliferating the court. The favourite was having an affair! People were agog. It was bruited that he and Douglass had been lovers for years, had in fact committed adultery during the lifetime of her husband. One tale even had it that Robert had poisoned Lord Sheffield after the latter had discovered them in flagrante and ridden post-haste to London to demand a divorce. Robert sighed when he heard that one. It was so obviously untrue – and it was not the first time that his enemies had accused him of poisoning someone. Where did such tales originate? How did people know that he was sleeping with Douglass? They had taken such care to be discreet. Did the very walls have ears?

  He took to arranging secret trysts in his own house, or away from London, at inns far beyond the eyes and ears of the court. Never did he contemplate smuggling Douglass into his lodging, which was close to Elizabeth’s. He trusted no one; he dared not think of the consequences if word of their liaison ever reached the ears of the Queen. Of course, he could have called a halt to the whole thing, save for the fact that he was so smitten – led by his codpiece, he ruefully told himself. It was unutterably good to feel intense desire for a woman again.

  But Douglass wanted marriage, not just an affair.

  ‘I cannot, sweeting,’ Robert kept telling her. ‘My devotion to her Majesty precludes my making any other commitment.’

  Douglass pouted. Her lips really were most delectable. He found himself fantasising about them, and the swell of her firm, full breasts above the pearl-encrusted border of her bodice. Elizabeth’s breasts were small, not much for a man to cup. It worried him that he was making such comparisons.

  ‘Do you really think the Queen will marry you?’ Douglass asked doubtfully.

  ‘I live in hope,’ he admitted.

  A slight frown furrowed her perfect brow. ‘It is unkind of her, and unfair, to make you wait. A man like you should be married with a brace of sons at his knee. The words “dog in a manger” spring to mind.’

  ‘You should not speak of the Queen like that,’ Robert reproved gently.

  ‘Pardon me!’ Douglass said, tossing her hair. ‘She does not like me, and I would give her more cause not to!’ She leaned into him, revealing a little more of her bosom than was decent.

  ‘Darling, I have told you, I am committed to the Queen,’ he protested, feeling himself grow hard. ‘There are two ways open to us: you could continue as my mistress, which I should like more than anything in the world; or I will help you to find a husband.’

  ‘Neither is acceptable to me,’ Douglass said, her mouth a little moue.

  ‘Sweetheart,’ he pleaded, ‘as you know, I cherish you. I want you to be mine. I am a man, with a man’s frailties, but even so, one with a conscience, and I mean to act honestly in this matter.’

  ‘How can you be acting honestly when my reputation is being dragged in the mire?’ Douglass pouted. ‘Today I heard servants gossiping that I had borne you a child. I told them never to repeat any such thing, as it was not true, but I could see by their smirking that they did not believe me.’

  A chill shivered down Robert’s spine. If the palace servants were repeating gossip like that, it would not be long before the Queen heard it; in fact it was as inevitable as death. Truly, it was becoming impossible to keep this love affair a secret, and Douglass was right: her reputation would soon be irrevocably ruined.

  ‘I have done everything in my power to protect us,’ he said, knowing that it sounded lame and promised her nothing.

  ‘Except the one thing that would silence the gossips!’ she retorted. ‘My lord, when my family placed me with the Queen, it was to guard my reputation and help me to another good marriage. My honour is very dear to me, as I am sure it is to her Majesty. What would she say if she heard that I am your mistress?’ She smiled sweetly at him.

  Robert dropped his head in his hands and groaned. The threat had been implicit.

  ‘Very well, I will marry you,’ he said, knowing that it was not what he wanted, but that lust and honour had to be satisfied. ‘But it must remain our secret. There would be serious consequences if word of it got out.’ He refrained – just in time – from adding that Douglass might as well remain his mistress, for all the good marriage would do her.

  She kissed him lasciviously, her little tongue toying with his, and permitted his hands to rove over her bodice; her dancing eyes said that he might go much further later. She had got what she wanted.

  But she rejoiced too soon. When Robert arrived one day at the pretty house he had rented for Douglass at Esher, and saw it filled with spring flowers in preparation for their wedding, he knew a terrible doubt. And when Douglass told him that she was with child, a child that – ironically – he wanted but dared not own, he knew that he would not marry her after all. She could not threaten him now. One word of her illicit pregnancy and she would never be received at court again – and neither, he feared, would he. He told her – God forgive him the lie – that he had new hopes of the Queen, and that his first duty naturally must be to her. Douglass ranted at him and even screamed, but to no avail. He would support her and her child, he promised, and visit her when he could. She was weeping as copiously as Niobe when he left, and it was a long time before she rose miserably to her feet and laid away the beautiful cream satin wedding gown embroidered with gold forget-me-nots, thinking that she would never trust a man again.

  1574

  Robert had a son. Elizabeth was appalled to hear it. The mother was that trollop Douglass Sheffield, whom she had rightly guessed was no better than she should be. The child had been christened with little fuss, but sufficient to warrant word of the event being bruited around the court, and the Queen had overheard Frances Howard prattling about it. They had even had the effrontery to name the brat after Robert, proclaiming his paternity to the world.

  How could he have betrayed her so – and with such a one? She spent many a sleepless night weeping into her pillow, devising numerous ways of being revenged on them both. The torturers in the Tower had nothing in their repertoire compared to what Elizabeth was planning to do to Robert and his dirty little whore. She was mortified to realise that their affair had probably been going on last year, on her birthday even, when Robert had come to her, all smiles and adoration, and presented her with a gorgeous fan of white feathers with a handle of gold engraved with his emblem, the bear, and hers, the lion of England – entwined, if you please! And this when he was actually entwined – and certainly not in the heraldic sense – with another woman. What an empty conceit – and deceit, yea – his gift had turned out to be! And now, she supposed, he was celebrating the birth of his bastard.

  Indeed he was. True to his word, he was maintaining the establishment for Douglass at Esher, and visited her there when he could get away from court, although his visits were never tranquil. How could they be after he had jilted her? Even so, he took delight in the lusty son she had borne him, but bitterly regretted the fact that this fine boy, his namesake, was of necessity baseborn, the child of his sin. For, great lord such as he was, it seemed a cruel irony that the only son he had sired could not inherit his lands and property. It was at times like these that he found himself filled with resentment against Elizabeth. Other men married at their pleasure. Why couldn’t he? It wasn’t as if she wanted to marry him herself!


  But, if he was strictly honest with himself, he knew that his desire for a son had not been strong enough to spur him into risking all by marrying Douglass. His passion for her was dying an easy death, for she was neither his soul mate nor his intellectual equal, as – he must concede – Elizabeth undoubtedly was. And Douglass, who had once seemed to be invested with all that was becoming in a woman, was fast turning into a shrew. It shamed her that the world knew she was Leicester’s cast-off leman, hidden away so that she should not offend the Queen, and that her son was a bastard. Her reputation was ruined.

  ‘I shall go to the Queen and ask her to make you wed me,’ she had threatened during one particularly heated quarrel. ‘We shall ride her displeasure and then you will have to do the right thing by me and Robin!’

  ‘You little fool!’ Robert shouted. ‘She’d have us both in the Tower, and then what would happen to our son?’

  ‘She would not go so far. It is no crime to marry.’

  ‘Do you understand nothing? When the Queen is jealous, she is vengeful. Remember what happened to Katherine Grey?’ A poignant memory of a pale wet face came to mind; poor girl, she had died in captivity at just twenty-eight, still separated from the man she loved – a salutary example to anyone who was contemplating defying Elizabeth and marrying for love.

  Douglass fell silent. She just stood there in her fine parlour, glaring balefully at him.

  ‘So are you never going to make an honest woman of me, even for the sake of our child?’

  ‘No.’ He was adamant. He did not love Douglass, he did not particularly desire her any more, and their marriage would bring him ignominy rather than advantages. Nevertheless he hated himself for what he was about to do. He had thought about it with increasing frequency. ‘We must part, and put an end to this charade. Let’s not pretend that we are happy together. You want your freedom as much as I do. I will continue to make generous provision for our son, and cherish him as a father should. He will lack for nothing – and neither will you.’

  He saw by her face that she would capitulate. Loving him – if that was the right word – had not brought her what she had hoped for, but money compensated for that, no doubt. It often did, he reflected.

  ‘Very well,’ she agreed. ‘You need not fear that I will make a scene. I mean to get married, if any man will have me, and then you can take Robin into your household, as is fitting.’

  ‘Then we are both well suited,’ Robert declared. ‘Come, let us drink to our bargain.’ As he raised his goblet, he knew what he would do. He would make one final, extravagant, determined bid for Elizabeth’s hand.

  1575

  It was a hot July day when Elizabeth arrived at Kenilworth. Robert had ridden out to meet her at Long Itchington, seven miles away, and entertained her there to a lavish dinner in a sumptuous pavilion he had had erected especially for the occasion. By the time they sat down to a table laden with meats and fowl with sauces of every description, he had ceased worrying about how much all this was costing him. It would be a worthwhile investment if everything went to plan.

  In the afternoon he and Elizabeth enjoyed some good hunting before making their way to the castle. By then it was dusk, and a thousand torches flickered in the balmy evening air as the Queen, followed by a great procession of courtiers and attendants, rode up to the drawbridge. She saw that it had been decorated with cornucopias of fruit and vines, the symbols of earthly bounty; one cornucopia was hung with musical instruments, another with armour.

  ‘They are here to show that all that I own proceeds from your Majesty, and that I would lay down my life for you,’ Robert said, sitting tall and elegant in the saddle beside her. She noticed that he was filling out his pointed doublets these days, but he still cut a dash with his manly bearing and his dark gypsy’s eyes. There really was no man to touch him, she thought, even now. She was very near to forgiving him.

  She had never told him that she knew about his bastard son. The next she had heard, he had abandoned his trollop, and not before time too. His behaviour had not been honourable, but Elizabeth was no fool. She could easily guess why Robert had not married the mother of his child. He had something – or rather someone – far greater in his sights, and this was why he had invited her to stay at Kenilworth. She did not doubt that his lavish welcome was symbolic of something of much greater magnitude than mere entertainment.

  The castle was surrounded by a vast lake on three sides, and as she approached the outer gatehouse Elizabeth saw rising from the water a magical island illuminated by torches, and upon it a silken-clad Lady of the Lake attended by nymphs. The Lady recited Kenilworth’s history to the Queen, naming all its illustrious owners – many of them Elizabeth’s own ancestors – before offering up the castle to her as a gift.

  ‘I was under the impression that it was mine already,’ she muttered under her breath.

  There then followed much fussing and ceremony as players dressed as sibyls and porters presented the Queen with the keys to the castle, and trumpets heralded her arrival in the inner court. In front of her, majestic and beautiful, rose the enormous hall built by her great-, great- (she forgot how many greats) grandfather, John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster; to her right was the massive ancient keep; and to her left the magnificent new lodging built by Robert to receive her. He himself escorted her to the sumptuous chambers prepared with every thought for her comfort, then dismissed their attendants. They were alone for the first time in months. Beyond the great oriel windows fireworks were sparkling, fizzing and cracking in the velvety sky. The noise was deafening.

  ‘We brought in an Italian skilled in pyrotechnics.’ Robert, standing behind her, had to shout to be heard. ‘Fortunately we were able to dissuade him from his plan to shoot cats and dogs into the air!’

  She giggled at that, suddenly the young girl he had once known. Could they be lovers again? Would all that he had done here to show his devotion convince her that they really should marry?

  ‘I have had a glorious garden planted for you,’ he told her when the display was over. He was like a child, eager to show off its treasures and craving approval.

  ‘I cannot see any garden from here,’ she said.

  ‘You will see it tomorrow,’ he promised, looking a little crestfallen. ‘It lies beyond the keep. I am sorry that you do not have a view of it.’

  ‘No matter, dear Eyes,’ Elizabeth said, moving to the opposite window. It overlooked the lake, and in the torchlight she could see at the edge of the water a fountain with statues of naked nymphs. They really were quite voluptuous – and they were directly under her window. Had that been deliberate? she wondered, feeling the first thrill of excitement she had experienced in what seemed like a very long time.

  Robert came up behind her again and stood as close as he dared without actually touching her.

  ‘They are very life-like, those statues,’ he observed. ‘What do you think of them?’

  ‘They are very naughty,’ Elizabeth chuckled, ‘and would inflame any mind with too long looking!’

  ‘As you have inflamed mine!’ he declared. ‘Their beauty – wondrous as it is – cannot compete with yours. It is the sun compared to the moon, and I am dazzled by it, mere mortal that I am.’

  It was the kind of compliment she loved, especially as it came from Robert, for he had known her in former years when she had not looked for such extravagance, and lavish flattery had not been part of their accustomed love-play. Nevertheless he had said these words to please her, and he was clearly gratified to see her break into a smile.

  ‘You wax lyrical tonight, Robin!’

  ‘It is your nearness that makes me so bold.’ He slid his arms around her slim waist. It was a long time since they had been so close. She did not resist, but neither did she react.

  ‘I have missed our intimacy, Bess,’ he murmured in her ear.

  ‘You made up for it elsewhere, I hear,’ she said, tart.

  ‘A man cannot live by bread alone,’ Robert said, pulling
her closer to him. ‘It was for lack of you that it happened. I am sorry if I hurt you.’

  ‘I thought of making you sorrier!’ Elizabeth taunted him, remembering those tortuous nights spent plotting revenge. ‘Is all this an apology?’ Her delicate hands indicated the luxurious room and the lake beyond the window.

  ‘That – and, I hope, more,’ he murmured. ‘A new beginning, if it pleases you.’

  ‘We shall see!’ she smiled, extricating herself from his embrace. He was not getting off so lightly. She clapped her hands to summon her maids from the bedchamber.

  Robert bowed. ‘Then I bid you good night, my sweet Bess,’ he said, satisfied. It had been a good start. He would win her around; he was practised in it, after all. As to his ultimate purpose, he trusted to the joy of their reunion to accomplish that.

  As he left the great chamber, Robert surprised a young woman dozing on a chair outside the door. Her expensive silk gown proclaimed her to be one of the Queen’s ladies-in-waiting, and when she looked up he recognised her at once. It was Lettice, the former Lady Hereford, now Countess of Essex, whom he had once pursued. She had been away from court for some months, running her absent husband’s estates while he was busy subduing a rebellion in Ireland. Robert was struck anew by her beauty, which was even more powerful in maturity than it had been in youth. Her flame-red hair framed a perfect oval face from which sloe eyes looked out sleepily in the most seductive of expressions.

  ‘My lord,’ this vision said, rising languorously and smiling. ‘This is an unexpected pleasure.’

  ‘The pleasure is all mine,’ he said, enchanted. Desire was still unsatisfied in him.

  ‘Is the Queen abed?’ Lettice asked.

  ‘She will be soon. You do not need to attend her. Others are on duty.’

  ‘Then I am free for the night after all.’ It was more of an invitation than an observation.