by Alison Weir
It did not quite have that effect. The bridegroom, in his tan jerkin, was limping; he had injured himself playing football, but that did not stop him from jesting bawdily with his sixteen groomsmen, who all subsided into awkward silence when they saw the Queen sitting on her flower-bedecked chair on the castle greensward, and made fools of themselves showing off at tossing the quintain, which made her laugh uproariously.
A troupe of Morris dancers then danced before her, after which her favorite spiced cakes were served, to which she helped herself amply, and the bride cup was passed around, so that the guests could drink to the health of the newly married pair. The high point of the proceedings was the arrival of the bride, an ugly wench long past her first youth, who stank a bit in her homely finery. Reveling in her moment of glory, she carried herself as if she were far superior in beauty to her bridesmaids, who were drawing lewd comments from the men.
The wedding party went off to the church for the nuptials, and when they returned, there was dancing before the Queen. Elizabeth nodded at Robert, and the two of them rose, linked hands and bade the minstrels strike up “Sellenger’s Round,” to which they danced with gusto, everyone cheering them on and clapping. Elizabeth then went indoors to rest, while the company settled down in high good humor to watch a pageant performed on the grass by players from Coventry. When Robert looked up, there Elizabeth was, leaning out of her window, clearly enjoying the performance.
“Again!” she called down when it was finished. “Ask them to come back and repeat it.” And so he did.
The next day had been appointed for the climax of the entertainments, a masque written by George Gascoigne, on which Robert had outlaid a fortune. It was to be sumptuously presented and richly dressed, with ambitious, awe-inspiring scenery, and performed in a silken pavilion situated in a suitably pastoral setting three miles from the castle.
The masque was loaded with meaning, having been devised to convey an unmistakable message. It told of one of his favorite themes, of two goddesses—Diana, the virgin huntress, and Juno, the goddess of marriage—and how each tried to persuade a nymph called Zabeta—there was no mistaking the near anagram of the Queen’s name—to follow her example. Inevitably, as Robert had instructed, it ended with Juno warning Zabeta that she should not heed Diana, but should follow her own example and pursue the delights of matrimony. As a finale, the lion of England was to be shown entwined with the bear of the Dudleys, so that none should be in doubt as to whom Zabeta was meant to share those delights with—or what they might be!
Unfortunately the gods were not disposed to smile upon this celestial contest. It rained that day and the masque—to Robert’s desperation—had to be abandoned. That night he made his way to Elizabeth’s apartments, determined to convey its message in person. She was leaving on the morrow, and so far he had not managed to pierce her defenses or revive their former closeness. She had eluded him at every turn, and there had been many of them during the past fortnight. He was acutely aware that he was making a desperate gamble.
She had gone to bed, her women told him. She had a long journey the next day.
“Bid her sleep well,” he made himself say, his heart plummeting like a stone.
In despair he hastened to find Gascoigne, whom he came upon slumped on a bench in the courtyard, replete with good wine.
“Wake up, man!” Robert cried, shaking the fellow. “I need you to do something for me.”
“Wh-What?” slurred the poet. “Oh, my lord! Sorry, I was ashleep.”
“Never mind that,” Robert said. “You’re awake now. I want you to sluice cold water over your head and write me some verses.”
“Verses?” blinked Gascoigne. He was not even sure if he could determine whether it was night or day, let alone write verses. Holding the pen might be beyond him …
“Yes. I want you to adapt the poetry in the masque to something that can be read out to the Queen before her departure in the morning. Go to, hurry! Much depends on this.” Robert was almost dancing in agitation.
Gascoigne yawned. There was no accounting for the whims of the great. “Yes, my lord. I will do it now.” He got up unsteadily and ambled off, remembering how impressed Lady Essex had been when he divulged to her—which he supposed he ought really not to have done—the plot of the masque.
“I have never known anything to equal the princely pleasures you have laid on for me, my lord,” Elizabeth declared, as Robert bowed low before her. This was good-bye, and he had only one card left to play. He knew it was his last chance, and did not hold out much hope of success. He watched the Queen, shrouded against the downpour in a blue cloak embroidered with flowers, mount her palfrey, raise her gloved hand in farewell, bend her hooded head against the falling rain and ride off at a stately pace for Chartley; then he gave Gascoigne a nod.
Elizabeth started as an apparition dressed in golden leaves emerged from a clump of trees at the far end of the drawbridge, announced himself as Sylvanus, the god of woodlands, and began declaiming his verses, improvising to describe the heavy rain as the tears of the gods at Elizabeth’s departure, and begging her in appalling, hastily cobbled doggerel to stay. She pulled up her horse out of courtesy, hoping this would be short, but the apparition cried that she had no need, as he would run with her for twenty miles to complete his tale. Then he resumed his recital. When she heard the name Juno—thank God Lettice had warned her—she decided to take him at his word, and dug in her spurs. His rain-soaked leaves weighing him down, the god Sylvanus hastened after her as best he could, capering beside her mount and reciting his verses faster and faster until he was running and spouting them between harsh breaths, but very quickly the Queen outpaced him, and he realized he could not keep to his boast for one mile, let alone twenty. He watched, crestfallen and panting, as his quarry disappeared into the distance, thankfully out of earshot. His voice halted, dwindled, and died.
As soon as he saw Gascoigne’s face, Robert knew that his hopes were buried in the mud, along with all the burnt-out fireworks and gaudy rubbish his servants were clearing up. Everyone was congratulating him and telling him how successful Her Majesty’s visit had been, but for him it had proved an abject failure. Such an opportunity might never come again. All that outlay … He doubted that his finances would ever recover. It was galling to have been defeated by, of all things, the weather!
He put on a brave face. He saw his steward, to give instructions for the reordering of Kenilworth, then took horse, as arranged, to rejoin the progress at Chartley, where Lettice, thank God, would be waiting for him …
1576–77
The Earl of Essex was dead, struck down in Dublin Castle by an attack of dysentery. Even on his deathbed he’d had his revenge on the wife he believed faithless, and sent a dying request to the Queen that she would be as a mother to his children, which was a slap in the face for Lettice. It was not unusual for the heirs to earldoms to be made royal wards, and Elizabeth readily acceded to Essex’s plea, granting the wardship of his young son Robert to Lord Burghley.
Soon it was being whispered that, in extremis, Essex had not asked for his wife. Rumor had it that he’d heard scurrilous talk about her and the Earl of Leicester. Certainly there was bad blood between Essex and Leicester, and no wonder! For a knight to seduce the wife of another knight was a grave breach of chivalry, and it was no doubt on account of this betrayal that Essex had altered his will to prevent Lettice having the care of their children. As for Leicester, had Essex lived, they would surely have become violent enemies, for it was said that they had quarreled savagely not two months before Essex’s death. It was even being whispered that Essex believed himself to have been poisoned with some evil in his drink. Well, it was not far to see who might have been responsible for that!
Elizabeth, however, did not hear the rumors. She was too heavily preoccupied with state affairs, maintaining the ever-delicate balance of power between France and Spain, and keeping up the pretense that she was hankering to marry the Duke of Alençon. Robert
was pressing her to let him go and fight with the Dutch rebels who had united under a new leader, William of Orange, against the occupying Spanish, but she would not hear of it. It was too costly a venture, and she feared to provoke King Philip too far.
“I marvel that you should suggest it,” she said to Robert. “You have not fought a campaign for—what is it?—twenty-five years. And look at you, old man! Look at your red face and portly belly. Soft living has done for you.”
Robert winced, bitterly disappointed. Elizabeth could be cruel when it pleased her. Yes, he felt himself slowing down, but he was still able to please a lady, and he knew he had the skills to command an army. He longed to show his mettle in the field once more, all the more so as the champion of the Protestant faith. He stayed silent, however, not wishing to provoke any more nasty remarks. God, Elizabeth had a barbed tongue! He felt a great melancholy wash over him.
Maybe, he reflected as the months went by, she had been right. His health was not what it was, and it seemed that his strength was gradually sapping away. The feeling had crept up on him, barely perceptible at first, and then inexorably.
“You should get yourself cured!” Elizabeth pronounced. Her brisk manner did not quite conceal her concern.
“Aye, Bess. I am going to Buxton to take the waters.”
“You need to lose weight,” she commanded, brutally candid as ever. “Look at me: I am as I was when I became Queen. My coronation gown still fits me.”
“Your Majesty is blessed with the gift of eternal youth,” he replied, resolutely ignoring the horrible red wig, the white makeup and the lines it could not conceal.
“That is because I eat sparingly,” she retorted. “They offer me twenty dishes at every meal, but I take only five, and they are usually chicken or game. I have seen you guzzling at table, Robin. The remedy is in your own hands!”
He bore her reprimand patiently, forbearing to mention the many cakes and sweetmeats she consumed, which ruined her teeth even if they did not ruin her figure; she was right, he knew, and she did have his interests at heart. In June he traveled north in slow stages, wishing he felt better. While staying as a guest of the Earl and Countess of Shrewsbury at Chatsworth, he received a letter from Elizabeth in which she mischievously prescribed him a diet of two ounces of meat a day and a twentieth of a pint of wine, adding that on feast days he might have also the shoulder of a wren at dinner and a leg of wren at supper. It made him smile; in fact it was a tonic to him.
During his visit, the redoubtable Lady Shrewsbury presented to him her husband’s charge, the Queen of Scots, and so he found himself for the first time face-to-face with the notorious Mary, the author of so much havoc. He saw before him a tall, large-boned woman, dressed in black, with wiry brown hair, dark eyes, a long face, and an uneven nose. No beauty, he thought, and wondered why men thought her so, and why she inspired such devotion among Elizabeth’s enemies. She held no charisma for him, although he knew that Elizabeth was desperately curious about her and would pump him for information—and to see if she had cause for jealousy—on his return.
Mary was pleasant enough; he admired her exquisite embroideries, and found himself thinking that she had a pretty lilt to her voice, although he grew weary of hearing it raised plaintively in complaint about her continuing confinement. He tried to show himself sympathetic without being overly so, or committing himself in any way, but he was relieved when she said she was tired and their meeting ended.
Burghley, reading Robert’s account of the interview back at Whitehall, was intrigued.
“I should like to meet her myself,” he declared.
Elizabeth snorted. “No, my envious Spirit!” she chided. “I have heard too often how her beauty and wiles can make the wisest men act foolishly.”
“But madam—”
“No, William!” she repeated, and then collapsed into giggles. Imagine her stately, morally upright Lord Treasurer being seduced by the Queen of Scots!
1578
Elizabeth and her ministers were dismayed to hear that King Philip was building an armada, a great fleet of ships, especially when her spies informed her that this was in readiness for what was being called the “Enterprise of England.”
Since her excommunication by the Pope, she had anticipated a war with Spain, and it now seemed that she was surrounded by enemies, with her only hope of friendship vested in an unstable France. It did not help that Alva’s great Spanish army was lurking just across the Channel in the Netherlands, which made her very jittery; nor was she pleased to hear that the former Duke of Alençon—who had been created Duke of Anjou on the accession of his brother, Henri III, to the French throne—had taken it upon himself to interfere in the affairs of the Dutch.
“He is acting without the backing of the French government, madam,” Burghley informed her.
“That’s one mercy, but he could easily upset the situation in the Netherlands,” Elizabeth said, frowning. “I think a distraction is called for. We must revive the marriage negotiations.”
Her councillors stared at her. She was nearly forty-five, and highly unlikely to bear children now, yet still she was the greatest matrimonial prize in Europe, and still she behaved as if she really was the goddess of beauty, as the poets called her. They wondered how Anjou, a young man twenty-two years her junior, would react to new overtures from England and the reality of marriage to this aging Hebe, a goddess of youth with an ambrosial cup well past its best.
To their surprise he preempted them, for what he lacked in height he more than made up for in ambition, and the crown of England was a compelling lure, especially now that fame and glory in the Netherlands were eluding him. With the backing of Elizabeth, he might yet emerge victorious and win the renown he so craved. No sooner had the matter been debated in council, it seemed, than Anjou dashed off a letter to the Queen, assuring her of his entire devotion and his willingness to be guided by her in all his doings. He professed to be astonished that, after two years of silence, he should wake up to the wonder of her existence, and pleaded most touchingly with her to revive their courtship.
And so it begins again, Elizabeth mused, smiling as she read his ingratiating missive. She felt rejuvenated to be playing the old marriage game once more. It proved that she was not so long in the tooth as some might think. In high good humor she ordered three new gowns with very low necklines—and let Robert dare say a word about that!—and six ropes of fine pearls.
But now there was Walsingham, recalled from France to be principal secretary, frowning and muttering about Anjou deceiving her.
“He is like all his race, madam, devious and corrupt. Think who his mother is! He means to cozen you, so that when he marches at the head of an army into the Netherlands, you will not raise a squeak in protest.”
Elizabeth was furious. Squeaking was the least of it. “God’s death!” she exploded. Pointedly ignoring Walsingham, she turned to Robert. “My lord of Leicester, please inform Mr. Secretary that it is not in the least surprising that the duke should have fallen in love with me. He is only going to the Netherlands to give himself better means to step over hither.”
“You heard that, Francis,” Robert said, trying not to laugh.
Elizabeth was walking in the gardens of Whitehall with Mendoza, the Spanish ambassador, assuring him, convincingly she thought, that she was the friend of Spain, and that she was deeply sympathetic toward the plight of the Queen of Scots, whom Philip had naturally championed—well, short of invading England and rescuing her. They were just returning to the palace when a piece of paper came fluttering through the privy door to the garden, as though someone unseen had deliberately thrown it at the Queen’s approach.
Elizabeth froze. She lived in fear of being attacked or assassinated, and she knew there were many subtle means of killing someone. She had heard tales that the Borgias used poisoned gloves or letters to get rid of an enemy, who then died an agonizing death as the venom seeped into the skin …
Before she could stop him, Men
doza swooped to pick up the paper, which turned out to be a letter bearing the Earl of Leicester’s seal. He handed it to her with a bow, and she summarily dismissed him, puzzled. Why would Robin send a letter in this manner? He was at Leicester House, and not well at all, she knew. Oh God, was he dying? Was this an urgent summons?
With trembling fingers she broke the seal and opened the letter. Yes, it was his writing.
Forgive my sending to you like this, but I know not how to break this news to you otherwise. You know, none better, that I am in failing health, and that it is therefore a matter of urgency that I look to the future and get myself an heir. I crave your pardon, but the truth is that I have married Lady Essex, who is with child by me.
It was the cruelest blow, and it came as an utter shock. She could not believe it. After all these years, and all the love between them, to forsake her, the Queen, if you please, for that hussy—and to marry her! It was the most unforgivable betrayal. And to write such news in a letter—it was the act of a coward. A true man would have come and told her face-to-face, and explained his treachery. But now he was asking to see her, begging her to visit him, as he was in his sickbed—his marriage bed, more like! Oh, she knew her Eyes of old: he knew how illness won her sympathy. Well, he should not have it this time. He would never have it again. She would have them both in the Tower. With child! How could he?
How she made it up the stair to her rooms she did not know. Once there, she dismissed her ladies and paced up and down, rereading the letter, scarce knowing what she was doing. It was hard to take in, that she had lost him to another. She still could not believe it. Did he not know how much she had loved him, and still did love him, God help her? As for that bitch Lettice, she wanted to claw her eyes out and mar that perfect beauty, so that Robert would never have any more pleasure in her. That conjured up the thought of them lying together, sharing that pleasure, which made her cry out in agony. Weeping torrents, she sank to the floor, beating her breast.