‘This puts you in a very difficult position.’
‘It does. My life, though it has had ample rewards, is perpetually difficult.’
‘You enjoy it, you villain! I’ve never heard you grumble.’
‘That, Ambrose, was before I was offered a kingdom I don’t want. The earldom is a carrot dangled before my nose, to lure me to Scotland.’
‘The Queen will never let you go to Scotland when it comes to the point. She will make you Earl of Leicester.’
It took a year, and when it came at Michaelmas 1564, it was more in the nature of decking the lamb for the sacrifice than crowning the hero with laurel. Robert was made an Earl because the Queen of Scots could not be expected to marry a mere lord. The Queen of Scots! Robert alternated between rage and mirth. The whole thing was a farce, and he playing the buffoon. He could only play on, and hope and work for a change in the scene, so that he might court the Queen of England again.
To commemorate his elevation to an earldom, Robert had his portrait painted by a Dutchman. He was extremely pleased with the result. A princely person indeed was portrayed upon the canvas, in orange-tawny satin, slashed and dagged and scalloped, studded with great knobs of pearls. Orange feathers nodded in his jaunty hat. He had not realized how his eyes were the dominant feature of his face. The effect, though different in form and expression, was the same as in the Queen’s face. He would have a copy made in miniature of this portrait and give it to her.
A peer’s mantle was crimson velvet, furred with ermine. The Queen’s cousin, Lord Hunsdon, was carrying it. Sir William Cecil, Secretary of State, read aloud the patent creating Robert Dudley Earl of Leicester. It sounded very good on Mr Cecil’s lips. At the word ‘creavimus’, Harry Hunsdon gave the mantle to the Queen, and it was she who laid it upon Robert as he knelt at her feet. She smiled so happily down at him Robert could scarcely believe she meant to deck him out in order to give him away to another woman, and when she touched his neck, ruffling the short dark curls at the nape with her fingers as she settled his robe, he believed it even less. As he withdrew backwards from the throne, the trumpets sounded for the new Baron Denbigh. He was a peer; in five minutes, he would be an Earl.
Elizabeth turned to the Queen of Scots’ envoy, Sir James Melville. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘Sir James, we will soon have a fine new Earl. What do you think of my choice for your Queen?’
Melville had to mouth the right words, whatever he thought, or whatever he knew his Queen’s thoughts to be.
‘A fine figure of an Earl, Your Majesty.’
‘Yet,’ Elizabeth’s voice suddenly sharpened, making the Scot start uneasily, ‘yet you prefer that long lad.’ She pointed accusingly at the young man bearing the sword of state. Melville looked and realized that he should be a good deal more wary than he had been where this Queen was concerned. She was well informed, too well, and she disapproved. She was pointing at Henry, Lord Darnley, the seventeen-year-old son of the Countess of Lennox, Henry VIII’s niece. The very young man whose parents pressed the Queen of Scots to consider him as her husband, and that she showed such interest in, and that the Queen of England was supposed to know nothing about. Henry Darnley was as tall, and a little more, than Lord Robert, but lacked the bone and muscle and maturity. A delicate-limbed, coltish boy, fair and baby-faced, though very long indeed, especially in the leg. A lad whose grandmother had been Henry VIII’s elder sister Margaret and a good Catholic into the bargain. Obviously in Elizabeth’s eyes not much of a bargain.
‘Oh, no, Your Majesty,’ Melville countered, putting a brazen face on it, ‘no woman could prefer a lady-faced boy to a man. Lord Robert,’ he said, in a tone he knew she would appreciate, ‘is a man.’
Elizabeth nodded her approval of that.
Then the man was led in again for the second part of the ceremony, to be made a belted Earl. Robert allowed himself to be pleased and satisfied, because he was a man who lived for the day, knowing that tomorrow might alter everything. At least he had his earldom and he was not yet married to the Queen of Scots.
*
The weeping willow swept the river and behind it the sinking sun dappled through, scattering gold coins upon the water. The largesse of a fairy Queen, floating upon the river in a little boat. The Queen wore black, like a widow, and she was alone except for her oarsman, who was not Earl Robert but Sir Thomas Heneage. She had been sitting there an hour already, so still and silent. It was early August, and the river bank dense with undergrowth. Clouds of gnats hung under the willow leaves. Heneage watched the bank, and hoped he would not be bitten. The only sound was a small splash as a vole left the bank, and the lesser plops of rising fish. A V of ripples past their stern marked the passage of the vole. The oars, resting in the rowlocks, let fall an occasional drip.
The Queen sat on, the dank river smells creeping upon her nose with the darkening evening. Soon the bats would fly and Thomas would have to light the lantern. Elizabeth sat in her mourning and thought of death. Kat Ashley had not said that she was going to die. Elizabeth had visited her only the day before, and she had spoken of feeling better. She had not seen fifty. Kat was the nearest thing to a real mother Elizabeth had ever had. Kat had wanted so much for her. Now Elizabeth felt that she had lost something more than dear Kat; all the things Kat had hoped for her in those young days had slipped from her grasp. Elizabeth let her tears fall into her lap until she could not see and needed to wipe her nose. Heneage stared discreetly at the river bank. He was a discreet young man, lively when she wanted him to be, sober when she did not. He enjoyed flirting with his Queen, yet knew his place and was quite happily married already. He was a friend of the Earl of Leicester, though Robert had shown signs in recent weeks of cooling friendship.
Almost a year after she had made her new Earl he was still there at Windsor at her side. The Queen of Scots had chosen another husband. Scotland now had a King Henry. That long streak of pump water, Henry Darnley. Callow, pea-brained, arrogant… Why had Mary Stewart not chosen a man, fit to be a King? Why had she refused Robert? Because Mary was far away, and Robert to hand, Elizabeth’s resentment fell upon him. He had spoiled her plans by sending Mary secret letters saying his suit was a farce, and by encouraging Darnley to go to Scotland, and by getting Mr Cecil to do the same. He still thought that she would make him King Robert of England. She would make him think different.
‘Light the lantern, Thomas,’ she said. ‘We will go back now.’ She watched while he deftly struck a light and, shielding it with his hand, put it to the lantern. She saw to it that when Heneage had rowed back they walked up to the castle together, and that they took a long way round in order to walk under the Earl of Leicester’s windows, and that she raised her voice as they passed, and had an answer from Heneage, too. Then she looked back to see if a familiar head was at the window and was satisfied that it was. This made her laugh into the night, and Heneage wondered why, when she had been so sad. Robert, at the window, knew why, and was more angry with her than he had ever been before.
‘Two,’ he said, slamming shut the casement, ‘can play at that game.’
But in the next few days Robert’s anger was only a shadow of the Queen’s. Elizabeth had been provoked to rage by news of another secret wedding, this time by Lady Katherine Grey’s sister, Mary. It was unbelievable, grotesque — Elizabeth made the corridors of Windsor ring with this fact — and after the example of Katherine, an insult to her royal self. The court walked gingerly, as if treading on eggshells. Robert let Cecil break the news, fearing that an inkpot would be aimed this time at his head. Cecil came out of the royal presence unstained by ink, but looking pale, blasted by the thunder and lightning within.
‘This is monstrous,’ he groaned, ‘she has not only married, but married a giant, the biggest man in the Queen’s service, and she is all but a dwarf. Not only a giant, but an inferior — Keyes, the Sergeant Porter of the Watergate at Whitehall. Over six foot six in his stockings!’
No one dared to laugh, even when the Q
ueen was heard to yell, ‘I will have no little bastard Keyes here!’, which would, after all, be appropriate to a Sergeant Porter.
Robert went hunting and the rumble of thunder was heard only in the distance. Elizabeth was to be seen riding with young Heneage. Robert rode, so far as he was able, in the opposite direction. She was deliberately provoking him to do so, and would no doubt make it a grievance. He had had enough for the moment. However, the direction in which he hunted provided an unexpected quarry.
The Viscountess Hereford was dressed for hunting. Velvet green as the holly became her exceedingly. A saucy little flat hat sewn with fluttering green feathers sat upon her ropes of copper-coloured hair. Lettice Devereux was unusually handsome, with a handsomeness of an unusual kind. No single thing about her was indefinite, the colour of her hair rich dark russet, the colour of her eyes richer and darker, her skin not merely pale, but richly, opaquely pale, like clotted cream. Those types of carnal woman always made one think of things edible. That mouth, so red, was the only sign of paint, and then only a touch. Lettice was twenty-five, the sort of woman who as she grew older would paint heavily but wear well and never lose her seductive look. Men were her world, and the world, Lettice evidently thought, was her oyster.
Lettice smiled, and that red mouth curved upwards at the corners, as did the sly, sloe eyes. A nymphs’ and satyrs’ smile. Robert wondered if she regarded him as a satyr. Lettice had the air of being very decided about what she wanted.
Robert enquired first after the health of Walter, Viscount Hereford, largely to ascertain whether he was anywhere near Windsor.
‘Walter,’ Lettice said, ‘is not here. He prefers Chartley.’
‘And the children?’
‘Penelope is beautiful. Dorothy is a screaming brat. I have been given some respite.’
Lettice put her respite to good use, which proved a very pleasant antidote to Thomas Heneage. Robert forgot it was time for Virgo to walk the earth. However, he was not allowed oblivion for long.
‘You are behaving disgracefully with my cousin Lettice!’
‘I have done nothing you have not done with my friend Thomas Heneage!’ A little glib and certainly not true, but an obvious provocation.
‘I have done nothing with Thomas Heneage that I need be ashamed of!’ The royal voice rose a full octave under provocation.
‘Ergo: we have done nothing shameful.’
She was furious at having been cornered in an argument. Out came the claws. ‘Thank God I am not a man! I can govern my passions!’
‘But not your temper!’ That was a daring one.
Out flashed a hand, and caught him across the cheek. Then she burst into tears.
‘I would like Your Majesty’s leave to go away from court for a few days.’ He pressed his advantage.
‘You want to leave me so you may meet her illicitly,’ she wailed.
‘I do not. I want a rest.’
‘If you’ve been doing nothing, then you don’t need a rest!’ she pounced triumphantly.
‘I want a rest from arguments.’
‘Then let there be no more arguments. Robin, come here and kiss me and we will say no more. Thomas and Lettice shall go away for a little rest instead.’
Robert came, as was inevitable, and kissed her cheek. He could not help smiling. ‘Your Majesty as usual holds me within the palm of your hand.’
For a while the sun shone upon Robert and his family.
‘We shall have,’ Elizabeth announced, ‘an autumn wedding!’
Robert looked at her incredulously.
‘Your brother Warwick, and my little Ann Russell.’
‘He has already spoken to Your Majesty?’
‘Perhaps you were too busy, Robin, for him to have a word with you first!’ Barbed, but no longer seriously hostile.
Well, good old Ambrose. For one agonizing moment, Robert had wondered whom she meant by ‘we’. Ambrose had in fact spoken to him of Ann, but no date had been suggested. It was a highly desirable match, Ann’s father the Earl of Bedford was a Dudley ally already, and the girl a favourite of the Queen.
‘It shall be at Whitehall, in the royal chapel. We will have masks, and jousting, and a great banquet. I am so fond of Ann…’
‘If your Majesty is pleased…’ She had not shown much pleasure in weddings recently. Robert wondered who would be expected to pay for the banquet.
‘I am pleased, Robin. Ambrose will be a good husband, as husbands go.’ That in itself was a rare accolade.
Robert had a new suit of tilting armour made to celebrate his status as Earl. The steel was banded in black on which silver ragged staves stood out in relief. In this he cut as magnificent a figure in the lists as he always had, though he was now thirty-four and his breastplate had increased in size an inch or two. His opposing team was led by Henry Knollys, Lettice’s brother, and included a young man called Christopher Hatton, one of the Gentlemen Pensioners. Hatton was a rising young lawyer and had the advantages of being tall, dark, good-looking and athletic. Just the type to appeal to the Queen. Her choice seemed to be for a type rather resembling Robert himself. He had by now found out who was to pay for the last great banquet of the wedding festivities — himself, which came as no great surprise.
The wedding of his brother having had the approval and interest of the Queen, Robert’s hopes for himself had begun to revive. If she would have anyone, he was now sure, she would have him. When tentatively pressed, she murmured coyly of not Christmas but maybe Candlemas, and Robert looked to the New Year. His hopes were further encouraged by the French, who wanted to kill any chances of Elizabeth marrying a Spanish candidate. He was invited to visit the French court, which was a measure of the importance they considered him to have. The next thing he knew was that both he and the French ambassador were summoned to the royal presence.
‘Would you like to go to France, my Robin?’
Robert, treading very carefully, said, ‘I would never wish to leave Your Majesty, not for a single moment. But if I am honoured with an invitation, it would be ill-mannered to refuse.’
She laughed, knowing his answer to be two-faced, designed to placate her.
‘How can I send a mere Master of Horse to meet a King?’ She indulged sometimes in diabolical mockery. ‘How can I live without my Eyes, even for a single day?’ Sweet-sounding questions, meaningless and answerless.
She laid hold of a ribbon dangling on Robert’s sleeve, holding him prisoner. ‘You are like my little dog,’ she said. ‘As soon as he is seen anywhere, people say “She is coming.” When they see you, it is just the same, they say that I cannot be far off!’ Delighted with this piece of bitchery, she pealed with laughter, to the embarrassment of all present, especially the French ambassador.
Robert looked down at the hairy morsel snuggled at its mistress’s skirt hem and was tempted to kick it out of the window. You could not tell which end was which. By God, why did he live at her beck and call, put up with being spoken to like a dog — compared to that, that hairy lickspittle in a velvet bow.
Was she going to turn round at Candlemas now and say she would marry him? After all this time? Able to taunt him with these words? Robert recalled the words of John Knox, in his First Blast of the Trumpet, and decided that they were not so untrue. The rule of a woman was a ‘monstriferous empire’ indeed. Yet he was also soon reminded of why he put up with what he did. The Chancellorship of the Palatinate of Chester came his way, at the Queen’s request. A juicy titbit, for which he had not even sat up and begged.
*
Candlemas came and went, as Robert guessed it would. By then grave news came from Scotland of the disastrous course of Mary Stewart’s marriage. Robert’s own correspondent left little to his imagination. He reported to Elizabeth, knowing that his news did nothing to further his own cause.
‘They say they found him half dressed in a cupboard in the Queen’s room at one in the morning!’
‘They say a good deal too much about Queens and their rooms, a
s you very well know, Robin,’ said Elizabeth bitterly. ‘If the Queen of Scots so behaves that her name is linked with that of an Italian musician, then she must expect to suffer the slings and arrows of rumour.’
‘David Riccio is her Secretary. I hope you are not thinking of appointing Ferrabosco, his English is not up to it.’
‘A viol player!’ Elizabeth’s voice expressed exactly her opinion. Yet within, her thoughts plucked a name from the past. Mark Smeaton, who had dared to love Anne Boleyn. The lute player. Was a musician any advance on a horsekeeper? Of course, she did provoke Robin sometimes with this taunt, but he was not and never had been anything so menial. Too much was said about Queens.
‘The King of Scotland is a drunken night reveller.’
‘The Lord Darnley was a disastrous choice. Disastrous.’ It was noticeable that she did not refer to him as King. As if by refraining from doing so she could allow him to be called a drunken reveller. She did not usually allow monarchs to be insulted.
‘He demands the crown matrimonial. Then he will try to steal the Queen’s throne, which he cannot do if she is alive and occupying it.’ The very worst fears Elizabeth could have had for herself if she married were now being realized by Mary. The single life had never seemed so desirable. Her bitterness and feeling of fear began to be directed at Robert. He could have prevented this if he had gone to Scotland as King.
‘God defend all my friends from setting foot in Scotland!’ Robert said with feeling. The Queen shot him a quite venomous look which he failed to intercept. Elizabeth would for two pins have clipped his ear. Her anger made her tense in her chair like drawn wire.
That creature, Darnley, was to father Scotland’s heir, and England’s too perhaps; that despicable, drunken, brainless creature. A July marriage, stone-cold dead by New Year. Mary was four months pregnant.
‘Nuptiae carnales a laetitia incipiunt et in luctu terminantur.’ Elizabeth sounded like a sour old maid. ‘Carnal marriages begin in happiness and end in misery.’
‘As in this case the bride is twenty-three and the groom only nineteen, there is a long tale of strife yet to be told.’
None But Elizabeth Page 23