by Alison Weir
Later, toward midnight, she returned with Robert, who gave Elizabeth a challenging look. Of course he wanted to know why she had changed her mind about the Archduke—and involved his sister, of all people, in this covert intrigue with Quadra.
“Well?” Elizabeth asked, avoiding his gaze.
“The bishop did not believe me at first,” Mary said, “so he sought out Robert.”
“Fortunately, madam, Mary had spoken to me beforehand and explained the situation,” Robert explained, a touch stiffly. “I assured him that she wasn’t lying. I think, coming from me, that carried some weight. And now, madam, may I have your leave to depart?”
“Robin, calm down,” Elizabeth said. “You know I am playing games.”
“I know nothing with you!” he retorted.
Elizabeth frowned. “Mary, could you leave us, please?” she said, and when Mary was gone, turned to Robert and put her arms around him. “I will show you what I mean very shortly, my Eyes.” She smiled. “This little charade is but a ploy to put Bishop de Quadra in his place, and teach him not to accuse me of being false and vain and fickle!”
“Ah,” Robert replied, his face relaxing into a grin. “So you do not mean to marry the Archduke, then?”
“Not at the moment,” Elizabeth replied.
The September days were warm when the Queen removed to Hampton Court. Every day, she was out in its spacious gardens, walking along broad paths lined with railed flower beds and heraldic beasts on striped poles in green and white, the royal Tudor colors.
“My father loved this place,” she told Robert, indicating the monumental red-brick complex of buildings behind her. “He took it from Cardinal Wolsey and converted it into a pleasure palace for my mother. Alas, she was dead before it was completed.”
“It is a magnificent memorial to them both,” Robert observed, “and your father did right to take it. No cardinal—or indeed any man of God—should own such a great house.”
“I have never liked it,” Elizabeth confessed. “It is uncomfortable and unhealthy, for all it impresses people. I have miserable memories of being cooped up here when my sister, Queen Mary, believed herself to be with child. All was in readiness for the birth, and I, of course, was to be supplanted. It was a dismal prospect. But the days went by, then the weeks, and there was no sign of the babe’s arrival. It was boiling hot that summer, and there were so many people crammed into the palace that the place stank. In the end my poor sister had to accept what we had all long suspected: that she was not with child at all. I was never more glad to ride away from a place.”
“She was an unhappy woman,” Robert said.
“King Philip had much to answer for. And yet Cecil and the rest want me to marry a foreign prince? Pah! Baron Breuner has been seeking an audience, but I said no.”
Robert looked behind to check that Elizabeth’s ladies were out of earshot. “Far better, Bess, to marry one of your own,” he murmured.
She gave him a look. “I have no wish to marry Arundel or Pickering.”
“That was not my meaning.”
“I know your meaning, Robin, and the answer is no!” And she turned and swept off in the direction of the palace.
He caught up with her and followed her through the wicket leading to her privy lodgings. “Forgive me, Bess—if I spoke out of turn it is only because of my feelings for you.”
“I will say no more of it.” She shrugged. “Come, I would have your opinion.” She led him through galleries and apartments brilliant with gold, silver, and vibrant colors to the vast great hall, where her mother’s initials—overlooked when they were supposed to be obliterated by Jane Seymour’s—could still be seen if you knew where to find them. Above their heads soared the most magnificent hammer-beam roof in England; below, on the green and white tiled floor, some courtiers were rehearsing a masque. Gilded trees in great pots had been positioned along the walls in front of the tapestries, and a wheeled stage bearing a green hill strewn with paper marguerites completed the pastoral setting. At the Queen’s approach, the players—several wearing what passed for classical costumes—fell to their knees.
“Rise, good people,” she said. “I am but passing through. I would not spoil the surprises you have in store for me later.” Turning to Robert, she murmured, “They are putting on the tale of Endymion, as a compliment to both of us. Kate Knollys told me, but I am not supposed to know it! The princely hunter Endymion is yourself, and I am represented by Diana, the goddess of the moon. Endymion is lured into an enchanted sleep, but Diana wakes him with a kiss, purely out of pity, charity, and queenly goodness. She has never been kissed before, nor will her lips ever again be sullied by such condescension.” She looked at him slyly as she passed through the screens passage to the processional stair that led down to the courtyard. “You may make of that what you will, my Eyes!”
Some days later, after the court had returned to Whitehall, Bishop de Quadra requested an audience. Elizabeth received him, smiling.
“Your Majesty,” he began, beaming happily, “I have come about your proposed marriage to the Archduke Charles. It is my understanding that Your Majesty is now favorable to the match and ready to give an answer.”
Elizabeth frowned. “I have no idea where you obtained such an understanding, Bishop, for I have no desire to marry the Archduke or any other prince. Even if I had, I would only consider marrying a man I have seen face-to-face.”
Quadra looked momentarily bewildered, but quickly recovered himself. “Well, Your Majesty, it is irregular, but I have prevailed upon the Emperor to allow the Archduke to come to England—incognito, perhaps.”
“No,” said Elizabeth robustly. “It would be better if His Highness did not come, because I cannot commit myself, even indirectly, to marrying him.”
Quadra’s patience snapped. “We are wasting words, madam. Your Majesty must begin with the premise that you have to marry someone, because that cannot now be avoided. Then you should invite the Archduke to visit England. I assure you, you would not be committing yourself in any way. The Emperor is amenable to the idea. He is eager for the marriage to take place. All he asks is that his son be spared any public humiliation should Your Majesty decide to turn him down.”
Elizabeth had been listening with mounting fury. Must? Must? Should? Who was the bishop to say “must” to a queen? But she kept her temper.
“I cannot invite the Archduke to England. It is not fitting for a queen and a maiden to summon anyone to be her husband. I would rather die a thousand deaths. The Emperor must take the initiative.”
Quadra was suddenly at his most avuncular. “Of course, Your Majesty. I understand such maidenly reluctance. There will be no difficulty in the Emperor making the request and putting arrangements in train.”
Elizabeth smiled graciously. “Will there not? How very kind. In that case, I admit that I should be delighted to meet the Archduke.”
“Your Majesty will not be disappointed,” the bishop declared, expansive in his moment of triumph, and foreseeing himself officiating at a royal wedding. “Would you prefer the Archduke’s visit to be a public or a private one?”
“I will think on it,” Elizabeth said. “Do not press me further at this time. The Archduke must do as he thinks fit. I do not wish to become involved, and he must understand that I have not invited him. Remember, I am not committing myself to marrying him. I am not. I have not decided whether to marry at all.”
Quadra looked exasperated again. His dream of a royal wedding was fading fast. “I will ask the Emperor to send his son without delay, madam.”
“I trust your lodgings are to your liking, Robin,” Elizabeth said at table that evening. They were supping together in her privy chamber under the fierce glare of Henry VIII, with only the kneeling servitors and a few ladies in attendance. In the corner, Mary Sidney was plucking a lute. A great platter of the cakes Elizabeth so loved was on the table. She had eaten three so far.
“Since you kindly ask, Bess, I fear they are damp, b
eing so near the river,” Robert admitted. And, his eyes accused, they are a long step from yours.
“Hmm. Then we must move you, my Eyes.” She rose suddenly. “Come with me.”
She led him through a series of small chambers until she came to a fine suite of lodgings, well appointed and spacious—for Whitehall, the palace being old and rambling—and ushered him inside.
“You could not find better, Robin. These rooms are next to my own, which are through that door.” She flushed.
Robert caught his breath. “Bess, do you mean …? At last …?” Desire was suddenly lively in him.
“You may come to my room later,” Elizabeth said, sending him a seductive look that nearly destroyed him.
He took her at her word. He could not have done otherwise, so badly did he want her. After midnight, when the palace was quiet and the only sounds were the regular cries of the watch and the occasional paddle of oars on the Thames, he rose from his bed, pulled on a nightshirt and a crimson velvet robe, and padded barefoot to the door in the corner. He lifted the latch and the door—miraculously—opened.
A celestial sight met his eyes. Elizabeth was sitting up in a bed ingeniously built of different-colored woods and hung with Oriental curtains of painted silk. She lay propped up on pillows in a tumble of quilts of silk and velvet banded with gold and silver, with a book in her hands. Candles on the silver-topped table at her bedside and two finely chased cabinets threw flickering lights that caught the gilded fretwork on the ceiling. There was just one small window, open to the river. The maid-of-honor’s pallet at the foot of the bed was unoccupied. They were quite alone.
Elizabeth raised her eyes from her book; there was no surprise in them, just the warmth of welcome. She was wearing a chemise of the finest lawn embroidered with silver thread, and her long red hair tumbled in waves over her shoulders, glinting like gold in the candlelight, which softened her angular features. She looked exquisite.
“I thought you would come,” she said softly, laying aside the book. Robert crossed swiftly to the bed and swept her into his arms, holding her long and tightly.
“I have dreamed of this moment,” he murmured, kissing her hair and her neck, then seeking her lips. For a short space she responded with equal fervor, but as his hands grew more adventurous, she stiffened.
“Oh, Robin,” she sighed, “do not ask too much of me. What I want is to be close to you—and to take matters slowly. You know I dare not risk a scandal, but there are many pleasures that lovers can enjoy without that, are there not?”
“Let me show you!” he whispered, his need so urgent that he was happy to accept whatever satisfaction she was offering.
She had stopped him, of course, before things went too far. The next morning, luxuriating in her herb-scented bath, she was glad of that; she also knew that the memory of what had happened during those beautiful, stolen hours would live with her forever. She realized that you could never fully know someone until you had lain with them and seen their innermost self. Now she fully knew Robert, knew she could trust him, and would have wagered her life that he was hers irrevocably. In revealing themselves to each other, they had forged a bond that no one could sunder.
They lay together secretly every night after that, unless the layout of her palaces made the risk of discovery too great. Sometimes Robert would moan that Elizabeth was killing him by withholding the final favor, but she was learning to bring him to ecstasy in other ways, and how to prolong the pleasure. She was discovering too how she could receive pleasure herself, and so they enjoyed a good semblance of lovemaking. Very soon all that was lacking was the ultimate consummation, which suited her very well. She did not think she could ever let herself go that far. If Robert pressed too near, all her old fears would come flooding back and she would tense and fend him off, provoking anguished gasps of protest. Then she would cozen him with kisses and sweet words and more daring things, as well as she knew how these days, and soon he would spend himself and all would be well again. For her, at least.
Presently she became aware that tongues were wagging even more furiously than before. The gossips were now saying that Elizabeth’s marriage to Robert was imminent. That brought her hot-headed cousin, Thomas Howard, Duke of Norfolk and premier Catholic peer in the realm, hurrying to court, where he made no secret of his loathing for Robert, or his disapproval of the Queen’s behavior.
“He told me to my face that he deplores your levity and bad government,” Robert seethed.
“God’s blood, I will have him in the Tower!” Elizabeth erupted.
“And I will march him there, if you will let me. He had the effrontery to warn me that if I do not abandon my present pretensions and presumptions, I will not die in my bed.”
Elizabeth’s eyes blazed. “He is jealous, the varlet. He would be one of my close advisers, in your place, no doubt. But he is not worthy anyway, and now that he has shown himself so hostile, he has ruined what small chance he had. I will be watching him!” Let Norfolk put a foot out of place and she would summon her gentleman jailer.
“He said something else, Bess. He heard from Bishop de Quadra that there was talk of a marriage between us, but he said that he, Norfolk, and other lords would never put up with my being King. Even so, the bishop had told him that I might be seeking a means to free myself from my wife so I could marry you.”
Elizabeth suddenly felt chilled. “What means?”
“He did not say, though his meaning was clear, damn him. But I am not seeking to free myself from my marriage, Bess—in any way. God will soon do it for me. I’d not darken Amy’s final days with talk of divorce, even if there were grounds.”
“And why should you?” Her tone was brisk. “I will not have such idle speculation in my court. If you hear it, be sure to refute it as if it is a mere light calumny. But I warn you, my Eyes, do not protest too much, or people will believe it!”
Autumn lay golden on the land when Prince Erik’s brother, Duke John of Finland, arrived in England, all but brandishing a pen with which to sign the marriage treaty. Elizabeth had sent a bullish Robert to receive him at Colchester, hoping the sight of her favorite would convince him that his brother’s cause was hopeless, but Duke John took Robert’s smiling welcome to mean that the way was now clear for Erik and Elizabeth to marry.
The duke sashayed into the court, jaunty bonnet a-quiver and fashionable cloak swirling, laden with gifts for the Queen. He bowed low every time she spoke to him, showered her with compliments in clumsy Latin, called her his dear sister and told her how beautiful and charming she was, and how vastly he was impressed by her wondrous realm of England. At first Elizabeth enjoyed herself immensely, playing up to his extravagant attentions, but the unsuspecting Baron Breuner was near moved to tears of frustration at the favor she bestowed upon Duke John, and before long she was hard put to keep the two men from each other’s throats. It was all she could do to keep blowing first hot, then cold, then warm in each direction, dangling some hope of success but never committing herself. It was a game at which—God be praised—she was becoming more skillful with each day that passed.
“Madam,” complained Cecil, “I am seeing nothing but wooing and controversy. I wish you would choose one and leave the others honorably satisfied.”
“Ah, my Spirit, but while they live in hope, they remain my friends!” Elizabeth said sagely. And long might it continue! Although in truth she was a little frayed from the effort.
The King of Denmark now joined the melee. His envoy arrived at court with a proposal of marriage, and made a great show posturing in a crimson doublet embroidered with a heart pierced by an arrow.
Bishop de Quadra sought out the Queen as she sat conversing with Duke John in the gallery above the tiltyard. “I see that your suitors are courting Your Majesty at a marvelous rate,” he observed, the smile fixed on his face.
“Many are hopeful,” she answered dismissively, being in no mood to wrangle with him. Robert had just entered the lists and she could not take h
er eyes off him. As the contestants charged, she stood there, riveted.
“Maybe you are thinking of an alliance nearer home,” Quadra said softly.
“I am considering several options,” Elizabeth replied, clapping vigorously as Robert unhorsed her cousin, Lord Hunsdon. “Bravo!” she cried. “Bravo, my Eyes!”
Baron Breuner was watching jealously from his vantage point a little farther along the gallery. As soon as he decently could, he requested an audience.
“Your Majesty, it seems there is no point my staying in England,” he said, his expression conveying that there would be if she’d only come to her senses. “You do not want to marry my master the Archduke. Your heart is given to another.”
“I will be the judge of where my heart is bestowed,” Elizabeth said coolly, her good mood evaporating. If Breuner left England, Robert would be blamed for it. She was well aware that he was already viewed by everyone as the reason why she would not commit to any of her suitors. Cecil had warned her, more than once, that she was casting away her advantages because of him—and he was not the only one complaining.
When Robert came to her that night, he was livid—but not with Breuner.
“Norfolk goes too far! He told me—he actually said to my face—that he would do all in his power to bring about your marriage to the Archduke. I answered that he is neither a good Englishman nor a loyal subject, to advise the Queen to marry a foreigner.”
“Then I must be a traitor to my own throne, for I have contemplated it many times,” Elizabeth said wryly. “But ‘contemplated’ is all there is to it, and just now I do not want to think of importunate foreign princes, or their importunate ambassadors. God’s blood, Robin, do not frown so! Norfolk is a fool. Leave me to deal with him. You and I have better things to do.”
She smiled and held out her hand.
Breuner was still at court, all smiles now, for some mysterious reason—and Bishop de Quadra was in a high good mood when next the Queen granted him an audience. He could barely wait to tell her his news.