by Jean Plaidy
The whole Protestant world was shocked and scandalized by the bestial cruelties which had been let loose. The streets of Paris, it was said, were running with the blood of martyrs. Two thousand, it was reported, had been slain in Paris alone; and in Lyons, Orléans, and many other cities the horror had been repeated. The noble Coligny himself—known throughout the world as the most honorable of men—was one of the victims; his son-in-law Téligny had followed him, as had many other gentlemen of high reputation.
The little boats were crossing the Channel and thousands of men and women were seeking refuge in England; the whole of the Protestant world was ready to take arms against the Catholics.
Preachers thundered from pulpits; letters of warning were sent to the Queen and her Council. “Death to all Catholics!” cried the people. “Make a treaty of friendship with Germany, with the Netherlands, and with Scotland. Stand together against the bloodthirsty idolators. And take that dangerous traitress, the pestilence of Christendom, the adulteress and murderess, Mary of Scotland, without delay to the block. Was it not her relations, the Guises, who had been behind the massacre! The Duke of Guise had conceived the murderous plan in conjunction with that Jezebel, the Italian Catherine de’ Medici. The Queen of England was in danger. Let her not bring rape, robbery, violence, and murder into the land for the sake of her miserable mercy to a horrible woman who carried the wrath of God with her wherever she went.”
Elizabeth was shaken. Like everyone else she daily expected war. She believed that the massacre was a preliminary move in a full campaign of the Catholics against the Protestants. She had all the ports manned; the ships of England were ready. She allowed Burghley and Leicester to persuade her to take some action with regard to Mary; but she would not agree to her execution. Mary was to be sent back to Scotland where she would doubtless be tried for Darnley’s murder and executed. Thus Mary would die and Elizabeth be said to have had no hand in her death.
But the months passed and there was no attack by the Catholics. Mary was still detained in England; but Elizabeth and her ministers knew that as long as there were Catholics and Protestants in the world there would be strife in one form or another between them.
Even as she looked at those ministers about her, Elizabeth sensed their irritation with her actions regarding Mary.
Burghley was a stern Protestant. Robert, though not religious, was giving himself to the Protestant cause. Only the Queen remained lukewarm. She would not admit it, but she favored neither sect. Both provoked bloodshed, and that fact prevented her from approving of either. How could it matter, she would ask herself in secret, whether a man believed the bread of the sacrament to be the body of Christ or blessed bread! What mattered was that she should continue to reign over her people, that her people loved her, and that her country should come to greatness through that peaceful prosperity which only tolerance could bring.
Life flowed more easily in England, although the Queen and her ministers were watching events abroad with an even keener interest than they had before the massacre.
The Dutch, under the Prince of Orange, were rebelling against the Spaniards who, with their relentless Inquisition, had inflicted such cruelty upon them.
Later the Queen issued a law against the wearing of over-sumptuous apparel among the common people, although her own wardrobe had never been so magnificent. There was trouble in Ireland and, to subdue it, Elizabeth had sent over the Earl of Essex who had been Lord Hereford and the husband of Lettice—the central figure in Robert’s escapade of some years before.
The King of France died, and Elizabeth, who had considered the Duke of Anjou, who was now Henri Trois of France, as one of her suitors, pretended to be annoyed because he had married unexpectedly.
Wheat was scarce and the price rose to six shillings a bushel. This was disquieting; the people began to murmur.
Then came the threat of war. The Prince of Orange and the Provinces of Zeeland and Holland suggested to Elizabeth that she should become their Queen, but she was stout in her refusal. Her ministers begged and implored. “What!” she cried. “Plunge my people into war with Spain!”
In vain did they protest and point out that she would become the head of the Protestant world. She wanted no part in the wars of religion, she told them. Let others fight such wars. She would remain aloof. She believed that those who stood aside and looked on at the wars of others were the real victors.
That summer she took her usual trip through the countryside. Robert had gone on ahead of the royal party, for the route that year passed through Kenilworth and Robert was to be the Queen’s host for twelve days of July. He was determined to prepare such pageants and entertainments as had never before been seen.
He was uneasy as he rode North. He could not help wondering whether she had heard the rumors concerning Lord Sheffield’s death; he wondered whether any had dared face her wrath by telling her that Douglass believed herself to be married to him and that he and Douglass had a son.
Elizabeth had been haughty with him recently and it was this that had started those uneasy thoughts. She was more devoted to her old Mutton and Bellwether—her new names for Hatton. She was very fond of her Moor; this was Walsingham, who was swarthy enough to merit the name. Therefore, thought Robert, he must plan such diversions as had never been known, even in the days of Cardinal Wolsey and her father.
Kenilworth Castle was surrounded by nearly twenty miles of rich estates. Robert had spent thousands of pounds beautifying the place and cultivating the land. He was a proud man as he rode through his estates. He wished that his father—who had always been his model—were alive to see him. This year alone the Queen had already seen that fifty thousand pounds had come his way—and that was in addition to the income he received from his many activities.
He no longer hoped for marriage with the Queen, for he now believed that she would never marry. She was a strange woman, not to be judged by ordinary standards. Many rumors circulated concerning her. Some said that she would not marry, knowing herself, on account of an obstruction, to be incapable of sexual intercourse. He knew the Queen better than any living person. He knew that love, for her, was a matter of flattery, compliments, kisses, and fond embraces. Her eyes would glisten at the sight of a handsome man; she could not refrain from caressing him. She was indeed a strange woman. She was fond of men, but she was perpetually in love with power. And…she wished to linger in romantic lanes, never reaching any definite journey’s end.
When he arrived at the Castle, a shock awaited him, for Douglass was there, and the child was with her. He was astounded. She should be at one of his manor houses awaiting the day when he could visit her. Although these people who were with him were his friends, he was not entirely sure that he could trust their discretion forever.
She had evidently decided not to embarrass him. “My dear friend,” she said, “I was passing nearby and, hearing of your great plans, called in to give you my help. You will have much to do here and I fancy I can be of some service to you.”
Were there amused smiles among the spectators? Was that a frown of anxiety between Philip Sidney’s eyes? Robert’s nephew loved him as did no other man, and Philip was wise. He scented danger.
Robert’s quick wits asserted themselves. “You are good indeed, Lady Sheffield,” he said. “I doubt not that I owe much to your kindness.”
But he was thinking: What, when the Queen is here! And his delight was turned to apprehension.
Elizabeth was very gay as she set out on her journey. With her were all the ladies of the Court, forty earls, and more than sixty lords and knights. She was looking forward with pleasure to her arrival at Kenilworth, to see Robert surrounded by that magnificence which he owed to her.
Dear Robert! He was not so young now. To tell the truth the figure which had once been lithe and slender was no longer so; the dark curling hair which she had loved to fondle was thinning and turning gray, and there were pouches under the beautiful eyes. She, who loved him, saw him clearly;
all his faults she saw, but they mattered not, for they could not alter her affection. He had not the clever mind of her Sir Spirit or her dear exasperating Moor; yet he had twice their ambition. He was—she would confess to herself—a little too careful of his health; he loved taking a physic; she often smiled to hear the earnestness with which he discussed a new cure with another such as himself. She herself defied pain; she would never admit she had any. She defied death and old age.
She could scarcely take her mind off the pleasures in store and give attention to serious matters.
Peters and Turwert, the two anabaptists from Holland, were to be burned at the stake while she was out of her capital. She had had many letters concerning these men. Bishop Foxe, whose chief concern was with martyrs, had written to her begging her not to sully her name, her reign and the Reformed Church by emulating the Catholics. Bishop Foxe and those who agreed with him did not understand. She must not come into the open as a supporter of anabaptists. Philip of Spain was watching. If only her people knew how she dreaded that man, how in her heart she knew that he, with that fanatical fervor she had once glimpsed in his eyes, was waiting for the day when he and the Catholic community would dominate the world, and all men would go in fear of the Inquisition!
She did not concern herself overmuch with these two Dutchmen. She was, like her father, not given to brooding over torture inflicted on others.
There was another matter which offered more pleasing reflection.
Catherine de’ Medici—now that her beloved son Henri was King of France and a married man—was hoping that Elizabeth might reconsider as a suitor her younger son, he who had been Alençon and, since his brother had become King, taken his brother’s title of Duke of Anjou.
Elizabeth found it amusing to play at courtship again.
The little man was quite ugly, she had been told; but the French ambassador—that most charming La Mothe Fenelon—was loud in his praises. The little Duke, he intimated, was beside himself with love for the English Queen; and if she were older than he was, he liked her for that. He was no callow youth to enjoy mere girls. Elizabeth had also heard that he was a little pock-marked, which she had said, made her hesitate. Catherine de’ Medici wrote to Elizabeth saying that she knew of an excellent remedy which, it was claimed, would remove all trace of the pox and make the skin smooth again. Elizabeth replied that this was excellent news; and they must at once have the remedy applied to the face of the Duke.
And now…to Kenilworth.
It was July and very warm when the procession arrived at Long Ichington, which was six or seven miles from the Castle. Here Robert had erected a tent in which a banquet was prepared.
The Queen, in good humor and most affectionate, would have Robert sit beside her; and when the banquet was over, Robert had a fat boy, six years old, brought to her—the fattest she had ever seen, but so foolish as to be unable to understand that she was his Queen. After the fat boy, she was invited to inspect an enormous sheep: the biggest of their kind, these two, and both bred on Robert’s territory. The Queen laughed immoderately, and this was a good beginning.
They left the tent and followed the chase which was to lead them to Kenilworth Castle.
The Queen, at the head of the chase, kept Robert beside her, and while he pointed out with pride all the beauties and richness of the scene, he said: “I owe all this to my dearest mistress. May I die the moment I forget it!”
She was pleased, and as she was reluctant to give up the hunt, there was little daylight left when they reached the gates of Kenilworth Park.
In the Park, pageants greeted her. Smiling, she acknowledged the greetings of all; and when she reached the castle itself, there at the entrance stood a man of immense stature, carrying a club and keys. As she approached he expressed surprise at the magnificence of the company, until, affecting to see the Queen for the first time, he went on with great wonder:
“Oh, God, a priceless pearl!
No worldly wight, I doubt—some sovereign goddess sure!
In face, in hand, in eye, in other features all,
Yes, beauty, grace and cheer—yea, port and majesty,
Shew all some heavenly peer with virtues all beset.
Come, come, most perfect paragon, pass on with joy and bliss:
Have here, have here, both club and keys, myself, my ward, I yield.
E’en gates and all, my lord himself, submit and seek your shield.”
The Queen smiled happily; she loved such eulogies; and she loved this particularly because it had been designed by her Robert.
As the company passed through the castle gates, Robert saw, for the first time, one in that company who made his heart leap with sudden pleasure.
Lettice Knollys had come to Kenilworth.
Robert conducted the Queen to her chamber. Through the windows she could see the fireworks which made a good display in the Park, a sign to the countryside that the Queen had come to Kenilworth. At intervals the guns boomed forth. It was as though a King entertained a Queen. And that was how Elizabeth would have it.
“Robert,” she said, “you are a lavish spender.”
“Who could spend too lavishly in the entertainment of Your Majesty?”
She gave him the familiar tap on the cheek, thinking: Age cannot take his charm from him. It is there just as it was in the days of his flaming youth; and now he is a subtler man, and I doubt not many would love him still; yet he has remained unmarried for my sake.
“I shall remember my stay in Kenilworth to the end of my days,” she said. Then, to hide her emotion, added: “The clock there has stopped.”
He smiled. “All clocks in the Castle were stopped the moment Your Majesty entered.”
She “pupped” her lips and raised her eyebrows.
“Time stands still for goddesses,” he said.
That was a nice touch and typical of Robert.
He took her hand and kissed it. “You have promised to rest here for twelve days. During that time we will forget clocks. We will forget all but the entertaining of Your Majesty.”
“There was never one like you…never!” she said tenderly.
“Madam,” he answered, “a goddess might lose her Mutton and her Bellwether, her attendant Moor, and even her Spirit; but her Eyes do her better service than any of these.”
“Mayhap there’s truth in that,” she said. “Now leave me, Robin. I am tired with the day’s journey.”
He bowed over her hand and raised it to his lips.
She was smiling affectionately after he had gone.
In a corridor he came face to face with Lettice, and he knew that she had waylaid him. She was more beautiful than she had been in those days when he had first attracted her. She was no longer Lady Hereford, for her husband had been made Earl of Essex. She seemed bolder, and because of that faint resemblance to the Queen which came from her grandmother, Mary Boleyn, she reminded him of the young Elizabeth whom he had known in the Tower of London.
“A merry day to you, my lord,” she said.
“I knew not that you would come.”
“You remember me?”
“Remember! I do indeed.”
“I am honored. So the great Earl of Leicester forgets me not! The most honored man in the realm—by the Queen if not by the people—does not forget a humble woman on whom he once looked without disfavor.” Her eyes flashed angrily. She was reminding him that he had dropped her while their affair had still promised much enjoyment to them both.
“How could a man look with disfavor on one so beautiful?” he asked.
“He might if his mistress commanded him to do so…if he were so much her creature that he dared do no other.”
“I am no one’s creature!” he retorted haughtily.
She came nearer and lifted her brown eyes to his face. “Then you have changed, my lord,” she mocked.
Robert was never at a loss. He could not with any credit to himself explain his neglect in words, so he embraced her and kissed her. Such k
isses were more adequate than any words could have been.
Douglass came to his apartment, bringing her boy with her. Poor Douglass! She felt that their son might appeal to his affections, even if she could not.
He dismissed his servants, trusting he could rely on their loyalty.
“It was foolish of you to come here,” he burst out when they were alone.
“But, Robert, it is so long since I saw you. The boy so longed to see you.”
He lifted the boy in his arms. It seemed to him dangerously obvious that this little Robert had the Dudley looks. The child smiled and put his arms about Robert’s neck. He loved this handsome glittering man, although he did not know that he was his father.
“Well, my boy. What have you to say to me?”
“This is a big castle,” said the boy.
“And you like it, eh?”
The boy nodded, staring in fascination at his father’s face.
“Mamma says that it is Kenilworth.”
Had she said: “You are the rightful heir to Kenilworth!” No! she would not dare.
He held the boy against him. For the sake of this child he was almost ready to acknowledge Douglass as his wife. He would have been proud to have taken young Robert by the hand and introduce him to the company. “Behold my son!” What consternation those words would cause.
The Queen would never forgive him; and indeed, he was weary of this boy’s mother. Her meek compliance and her suppressed hysteria reminded him uncomfortably of Amy. Why could not these women fall out of love as easily as he could?
Lettice was a different kind of woman; and Lettice too had a fine son. She had called him Robert. Was that in memory of Robert Dudley? This boy of hers, now eight years old, was of outstanding beauty. Why should Lettice not give him sons?