The Complete Tudors: Nine Historical Novels

by Jean Plaidy

  The rebellion was speedily quelled. Poor and simple men from the hamlets and the villages were hanging from the gibbets for all to see what happened to those who rebelled against the Queen.

  In her wrath, men said, she is as terrible as her father was.

  Six hundred men who had followed their leaders were now lifeless hanging corpses, and the North was plunged into mourning.

  They must learn, said Elizabeth; they must understand the rewards of treason to the throne.

  But Mary she merely kept more closely guarded, while Norfolk lived on in the Tower.

  Norfolk had learned his lesson, said the Queen; and she was not entirely sure that he was responsible for the rising. As for Mary, adulteress, murderess, and fomenter of plots that she might be, as a Queen she was apart from ordinary mortals.

  Elizabeth’s ministers shook their heads in sorrow and anger. They assured her that she risked her life while Mary lived; she also risked the safety of England.

  Elizabeth knew she was risking much, but she felt that in tampering with the privileges of royalty, she risked more.

  Mary could not learn her lessons and it was not long before she was plotting again. This time the services of a Florentine banker, named Ridolfi, were employed. Ridolfi lived in London, where he had a branch of his business, but he traveled freely about the Continent, and for this reason he was chosen to carry messages between the Pope, the Spanish ambassador, and the Catholic peers in England.

  Norfolk, now home at his county seat, was still under some restraint since his release from the Tower. He was approached by Ridolfi, and, weakling that he was, under the spell of Mary to whom he had been sending money and gifts, found himself once more drawn into mischief and danger.

  This time the danger was unmistakable, for messages had come from Alba himself, who promised that if Norfolk would start a revolt, he would send an Army to England to consolidate any success.

  The Queen, snapping her fingers at Cecil’s detractors, had created him Lord Burghley; and Burghley was not a man to forget that Norfolk was under grave suspicion, although no longer a prisoner. A messenger from Ridolfi was captured as he landed in England from the Continent, where the Florentine now was. The message was vague and merely indicated that all was going well; but Burghley and his spies were on the scent; and when Norfolk’s servants were put to severe questioning, it was discovered that a plot was in train, involving Norfolk, Mary, the Catholic peers, and—most disturbing—the Pope, Philip, and his commander Alba.

  Burghley’s spies were busy and, when letters were smuggled in to Mary, they were intercepted; so the plot was discovered before it had fully matured.

  Burghley could restrain his impatience no longer; he presented his evidence to the Queen, with the result that Norfolk was arrested and the Spanish ambassador sent back to his own country.

  Now the Queen’s ministers were calling for the blood—not only of Norfolk but of Mary. Elizabeth was calm, as always in moments of danger.

  Strangely enough she was still reluctant to execute either Norfolk or Mary. The truth was that she hated strife; she hated executions. Her father and sister had left a bloody trail behind them, and she did not wish to rule as they had—by fear. She had given her consent to the execution of the six hundred at the time of the rebellion, but that, she assured herself, had had to be, for royalty must be maintained and men must learn that it was a cardinal sin to rise against their ruler. Yet, Burghley would reason with her, had not Norfolk rebelled? Was not the Queen of Scots more worthy of death than those six hundred men?

  What he said was true. But Mary was a Queen, and Norfolk was the first peer in the land.

  She faced her ministers; she listened to their railings against Mary and Norfolk.

  “This error has crept into the heads of a number,” said one man, “that there is a person in this land which no law can touch. Warning has already been given her. Therefore the axe must give the next warning.”

  “Shall we say,” said another, “that our law is not able to provide for such mischief? If this is so it is defective in a high degree. Mercy was shown my lord of Norfolk but no good followed.”

  Then came the great cry from all: “To the scaffold with that monstrous dragon, that adulteress and murderess. And to the scaffold with the roaring lion of Norfolk.”

  She temporized as she knew so well how to do. She gave them Norfolk, and on a hot June day he walked out to the scaffold on Tower Hill; but she would not give them Mary.

  NINE

  During these politically troublous times, Robert’s private life was providing complications.

  Robert, as he himself admitted, was a frail man where women were concerned; yet the Queen did not seem to understand how frail he was in this respect; she did not seem to understand the strain she put upon him. He longed for children. He had two charming nephews of whom he was very fond—Philip and Robert Sidney; they were to him as sons; but he was not a man to be content with his sister’s sons.

  Burghley had a son of his own. It was true that Robert Cecil was a puny creature, had been hard to rear and had inherited his humped back from his studious mother. Only Robert Dudley, the most virile, the most handsome at Court, was without legitimate children.

  His first and most cursed marriage had been a childless one; he knew that was due to Amy and not to himself; he had proved that. But illegitimate children were not what he wanted; to them he could give his affection, but not the Dudley name.

  For some years he had been having a very pleasant love affair with Douglass, Lady Sheffield. This was highly dangerous, but his passion for Douglass had been so strong that, to satisfy it, he had been ready to risk discovery and the Queen’s displeasure.

  He remembered well the beginning of their love affair. The Queen had been on one of her summer pilgrimages which she had insisted should take place every year. A great procession would set out from Greenwich, Hampton, or Westminster—the Queen usually on horseback but sometimes in a litter followed by numerous carts containing furnishings and baggage. All must show a gusto to equal her own in these journeys.

  The people would come for miles to see her pass, and stage entertainments for her. She loved the easy manners of the people who, she declared, though they might lack the grace of her courtiers, loved her no less than they did.

  As to the route which should be followed, she changed her mind again and again. One farmer, having heard that she was to go one way, and then had decided against it before finally taking the road she first intended, shouted beneath the window of the inn where she was staying that night: “Now I know the Queen is but a woman; and she is very like my wife, for neither can make up their minds.” Her ladies were shocked. How dared the man thus talk of the Queen? But Elizabeth put her head out of the window and cried to her guards: “Give that man money to shut his mouth.”

  One man called to the royal coachman to “Stay the cart that I may speak with the Queen!” And the Queen, smiling graciously, commanded that the cart be brought to a full stop; and not only did she speak to the man but she gave him her hand to kiss.

  These familiarities endeared her to the people. When she stayed at humble inns, she would insist that the good innkeeper did not beggar himself to entertain her; but when she stayed at noble houses she expected lavish display.

  On the occasion of which Robert was thinking, the party rested at Belvoir Castle, the estate of the Earl of Rutland; and among those noblemen who came from the surrounding country to pay homage to the Queen was Lord Sheffield.

  The most beautiful woman in that assembly was Douglass, Lady Sheffield. She was of high birth, being a Howard of the Effingham branch; she was young and impressionable.

  She had heard of the great Dudley who had recently been created Earl of Leicester and offered as husband to Mary Queen of Scots. Circulating about the country were stories in which the Queen figured largely; the whole of England had gossiped about the love affair, the murder of Amy, the children they had had, and of the Queen’s
passionate jealousy regarding him. It seemed to Douglass that this Earl of Leicester was not so much a man as a god—often a malignant god, but an intensely fascinating one.

  And when she saw him, magnificently attired and sitting his horse as no other sat his, she thought—as others had thought before her—that nowhere in the world and at no time had a man lived to equal the physical perfection of this Robert Dudley.

  When Douglass knelt before the Queen, Leicester was beside Her Majesty; and for a moment Douglass saw his eyes upon her. She shivered. This was the man who had planned the murder of his wife for the sake of the Queen. This was the man who some said was the wickedest in England. He was aware of her look. He smiled, and she felt that was one of the most important moments of her life.

  There was a banquet and ball that night in Belvoir Castle. The Queen was flirting in her lively fashion with her new favorite, Hatton, and inclined to be tart with Robert. It might have been that she had noticed his glance at the beautiful Lady Sheffield.

  Thinking of Douglass, Robert knew, out of his experience, that in her case there would be a quick surrender, and felt a sullen anger toward the Queen rising within him. What a life he might have had! What if he had married a woman such as the charming Lady Sheffield? What children they might have had—sons like Philip and Robert Sidney. If he had married the Queen, their son would have been heir to a kingdom. But she was perverse and would rule alone. Amy had died in vain and he had an evil reputation. He had suffered much on account of this, and yet he might have remained married to Amy all these years, for all the difference it had made.

  In the dance he found himself next to Douglass.

  She was not bold, as Lettice Knollys had been. Lettice had been attracted because of his reputation, Douglass in spite of it. But he was excited by this young woman. Let Elizabeth flirt with her dancing master.

  He bent close to Douglass and said: “Fate brings us together.”

  She started, and he went on: “You have heard evil tales of me. Do not believe them, I beg of you.”

  “My lord,” she began, but he interrupted with: “Come. ’Tis true. Much evil has been spoken against me.”

  She recovered her composure. “We know you here for the great Earl…the greatest Earl…”

  “The wickedest Earl!” he put in. “That saddens me. I would like an opportunity of proving to you that it is not true.”

  “I…I did not believe it,” she said.

  But the dance had taken her from him. He thought of the pleasure which would be his when she became his mistress. He pictured happy meetings, riding away from Court to meet her at one of his houses; perhaps even arranging that the Sheffields should come to Court. It would be dangerous, but he was in the mood for recklessness.

  The dance had brought him to the Queen.

  “I have been watching you at the dance, my lord.” Her eyes challenged him.

  He answered ironically, excited by Douglass who was so young and charming: “I am honored by Your Majesty’s attention. I did not believe that in the dance your Eyes could interest you as do your Lids.”

  She gave his arm a nip. “You must not be jealous, Robert. There are some who excel at one thing, others at another; some are born dancers, some lovers of women.”

  “And some fortunate ones, both, Your Majesty.”

  She gave him her hand and he pressed it fervently. He saw that she was satisfied, and that was what he wished; he wanted no interference with his new experience.

  Yet for all his arts and wiles it was not until the last day of his stay at Belvoir Castle that Douglass became his mistress. She feared her husband; he feared the Queen; therefore a meeting was not easy to arrange.

  But he was expert at such arrangements. He managed to lure her away from the others during a hunt; he knew of an inn nearby where they might stay awhile to refresh themselves. He was so fascinating, so debonair that he could conduct such matters with skill and charm. To Douglass it seemed that he was all-powerful; and in any case he was quite irresistible.

  Yet such an important personage could not absent himself even for a few hours without attracting some attention. Mercifully the Queen did not notice his absence, but there were others to smile behind their hands and to whisper together of my lord’s latest amorous adventure.

  When the royal party left Belvoir, promises were exchanged between the lovers.

  That had happened some time ago, yet Robert had never lost interest in Douglass. She was so charming, so well-bred, being one of the Howards of Effingham; she displayed none of the Tudor tantrums.

  Two or three years after their first meeting, Lord Sheffield had unfortunately died. Robert regretted this because Douglass had changed when she became a widow. She was by nature a virtuous woman, and only the great fascination which Robert was able to exert could have made her break her marriage vows; consequently she had suffered much remorse, and she longed for a regular union. Whilst her husband lived, that, happily for Robert, was out of the question; but when he died and a suitable period had elapsed, she began pleading for marriage. She was even more in love with him than she had been during those ecstatic days at Belvoir Castle. It would be the happiest day of her life, she told him, when she could enjoy their union and feel herself to be free from sin.

  It was at this time that a new danger presented itself. Douglass came to Court; and her sister, Frances Howard, who was also at Court, became enamored of Robert. The two sisters were jealous of each other and their jealousy became a subject for gossip.

  And as if this were not enough, Douglass continued to plead for marriage.

  Robert was charmingly regretful. “But, my dear Douglass, you know my position at Court. You know what I owe to the Queen’s favor. I doubt not that I should lose all that I have gained if there was a marriage between us.”

  “What of a secret marriage, Robert?”

  “Do you think such a matter could long be kept secret from the Queen? She has her spies everywhere. And I have my enemies.”

  “But our love has been a secret.”

  He smiled wryly at her. If only it had been so, he would have felt much easier in his mind.

  “Do you know,” he asked her, “what I have risked for your sake?”

  “Oh, Robert, if I should bring disaster to you I should never forgive myself.”

  He would consider it worthwhile, he told her; but it would be senseless to run unnecessarily into danger.

  Then the troublous times had come. The rebellion and the execution of Norfolk had given him other matters with which to occupy his mind. There was a new personality at Court—Sir Francis Walsingham—a protégé of Burghley’s and a man of great astuteness. He had been ambassador to the Court of France and, when he returned to England, had become a member of the Privy Council. Robert had recognized the dynamic qualities of this dark-skinned man and was trying to win him over to his side, that, if need be, they might stand together against Burghley. These matters took his thoughts from Douglass until it was necessary for her to leave Court because she was to have a child.

  Now Douglass was alternately joyful and despairing. She wanted the child but could not bear that it should be born a bastard. How could she explain its existence, she wanted to know. It was some years since her husband had died. Robert must marry her now.

  Robert himself was torn with indecision. What if the child should be a boy? Had he not always longed for a son? And yet…what of the Queen?

  Frantically he searched for a solution.

  Douglass, retiring though she was, was by no means a calm woman; she was given to bouts of melancholy and hysteria; and Robert was afraid that in her pregnancy these weaknesses might be intensified. He had many enemies, but he also had his supporters. There was his own family; his brothers and sisters and all those connected with the Dudley family looked to him as their leader; if he fell, they would fall too. He had his followers and they were dependent on him, so he could trust their loyalty. He was without doubt a powerful man, but because his
power had come to him through his personal qualities rather than his achievements, he regarded it more lightly than a man would have done who had earned it by careful, constant effort. Robert had had much success; he believed he could succeed in what others dared not attempt.

  So at last he agreed to go through a form of marriage with Douglass very quietly at Esher, with only a few of his trusted servants as witnesses.

  This seemed to him a master-stroke, for he felt sure that the Queen’s anger would not be lasting if he were not properly married; and at the same time, as a result of this mock marriage, Douglass could call herself—in secret—the Countess of Leicester, and soothe her qualms.

  She was soothed and thought of nothing but preparing for the child.

  It was a boy, and they called him Robert.

  But their enemies were already whispering one with another that the Earl of Leicester had secretly married, and that it was well known how he and the lady had been lovers before the death of Lord Sheffield.

  The death of Lord Sheffield! Now how had Lord Sheffield died? Of a catarrh, it was said. Might it not have been an artificial catarrh which stopped his breath?

  They only had to cast their minds back to another death. Had they forgotten the poor lady who had been found with her neck broken at the foot of a staircase at Cumnor Place! That was when Lord Robert had thought he might marry the Queen. And now that the Earl of Leicester wished to marry another lady, that lady’s husband had most conveniently died.

  Such rumors there would always be concerning one so prominent, one who had known such spectacular good fortune.

  Robert must make sure these rumors did not reach the ears of the Queen.

  News of one of the most horrible massacres the world had ever known came to England.

  On the Eve of St. Bartholomew’s Day, King Charles with his mother, Catherine de’ Medici, and the Duke of Guise had incited the Catholics of Paris to murder thousands of Huguenots assembled in the capital for the wedding of Catherine’s daughter, Marguerite, to Henry of Navarre.