by Alison Weir
On a warm June night Elizabeth, bravely attired in a beautiful gown of cloth of silver, boarded her state barge to watch a pageant on the Thames. Robert was close behind her as she stepped nimbly along the narrow deck between the livery-clad oarsmen to the larger of the two cabins, which was sumptuously appointed with gilded paintwork, rich velvet cushions, curtains of cloth of gold, and a crimson velvet rug strewn with petals, which gave off a heady scent. The curtains were tied back, and through the expensively glazed window Elizabeth espied Bishop de Quadra among the press of courtiers crowding the landing stage, awaiting their own barges. It was chaos out there, and if they were not careful someone would end up in the river.
“My lord!” she called. “Pray join us!”
Robert scowled. “You do not need to flirt with the Catholics,” he muttered, but the bishop, a delighted smile on his broad face, was now boarding the barge and there was no more time for grumbling. Lady Katherine Gray came, whey-faced as ever, with a platter of seed cakes and goblets of wine, and Quadra was made welcome as Elizabeth invited him to be seated with her and Robert on the opulent cushions. Now the barge was pulling away to the center of the Thames in the torchlight, and myriad other craft came gliding to form a flotilla around the royal barge, each boat with its own gaudy display, put on for the delight of the Queen and the crowds that lined the banks. There were dragons and unicorns, nymphs and gods, knights and damsels, all accompanied by music, verses, and fireworks. It was a magical scene, and Elizabeth reveled in it. She sat happily between Robert and Quadra, gaily pointing out the sights, devouring the cakes and clapping her hands. When the bishop ventured to talk about politics, she hushed him with a raised finger and a wink, and went on swapping witticisms and jokes with Robert.
For all that he was a churchman sworn to celibacy, Quadra could see that this was a couple very happy in each other’s company. If you could forget that they were two heretics, and that Lord Robert had very likely murdered his wife, they were perfect for each other. Mellow and expansive with good wine, cake, and the undeniable honor of being invited to share this special evening with the Queen and her favorite, he felt moved to make an observation. “Your Majesty seems very happy tonight,” he said, looking first at her and then at Lord Robert.
Elizabeth smiled. “It is because I am,” she said.
“So the rumors are true, that you will marry Lord Robert here?”
“That would be telling!” Elizabeth laughed. “But we do speak of it, do we not, Robin?”
Robert knew that she was enjoying teasing Quadra—and him too. “If you like, madam,” he said, playing along, “the worthy bishop here could marry us.”
The Queen giggled. “I am not sure he knows enough English!”
Quadra’s good mood evaporated. He disliked this banter about what was, after all, a weighty, nay, a sacred matter. Matrimony was a holy estate and a sacrament of the Church, and not to be spoken of lightly. But all was falsehood and vanity with this woman. She had a hundred thousand devils in her body, and he did not pretend to understand her.
“Madam,” he said, a touch stiffly, “if Your Majesty were to extricate yourself from the tyranny of Sir William Cecil and your other advisers, and restore the true religion in England, then you could marry Lord Robert as soon as you please, because King Philip would give you his full support, and with that behind you no one would dare to oppose your union. And I myself would gladly officiate at the nuptials.”
Elizabeth could see that the good humor had fled from Robert’s face, but before he could say anything compromising, she beamed at the bishop and thanked him for his advice and his good care for her affairs. She even went so far as to say that she would consider what he had said, and ignored Robert’s angry gesturing behind Quadra’s back. Later, though, when they were alone, and he had the presumption to take her to task for dissembling over such an important issue, she lost her temper.
“I am Queen of this realm! Do not question my wisdom, Robin. I was invested with it at my coronation, and it is not seemly for mere mortals to disparage me. You would not have spoken to my father thus!”
“I did not bed with your father!” he flung back. “You’re very willing to come down from your cloud and consort with a mere mortal at such times.”
“Pah! Don’t count on it, Robin. And you should know that it is in England’s interests to have Spain’s friendship at this time.”
“Even if it means compromising your principles over religion?”
Elizabeth snorted. “You know me better than that. Come, dear Eyes, let’s not quarrel. It was a lovely evening until you spoiled it.”
He came to her then; he could never resist her, and again he felt that her hand, the ultimate prize, was within his reach. But that night, as on the other nights that had passed since she had pushed him away, she seemed distracted and tense, and he had cause, lying there wakeful in the small hours, to wonder what his future held.
It seemed that Elizabeth was again playing games. Word had come that Erik of Sweden, ardent as ever, was on his way to England to renew his courtship.
“I don’t know why he bothers,” Robert growled, and was heartened to be told by his friends that it was all over the court that the Queen had eyes for no one but him, and that people were laying bets as to when, not if, they would marry. But then a new portrait of Erik arrived, in advance of his person. Elizabeth had it set up in her presence chamber, and stood admiring it as her courtiers clustered around. She smiled archly at Robert, then turned her head to the painted face on the panel.
“If the King is as handsome as his picture, no woman could resist him,” she declared wickedly, and as she chatted to all and sundry her eyes kept straying in its direction, ignoring Robert standing simmering beside her.
He had cause to simmer even more when she received the ambassador of Charles IX, the new King of France. Mary Stuart’s sickly young husband, Francis II, had recently died, and his brother now reigned. The Queen Mother, Catherine de’ Medici, had made it plain that Mary was no longer welcome in France, and so she had returned home to Scotland, which was now in the grip of its Protestant lords. It pleased Elizabeth to think of the inexperienced Catholic Mary, who had dared to lay claim to her own crown, having to deal with these hardened, unforgiving men: barbarians, the lot of them, as Bacon had said. They would keep her well occupied and keep her from making mischief!
But at least the Scottish lords were friendly to Protestant England, which would curb Mary’s pretensions; and now King Charles was offering his friendship.
“Madame,” his ambassador said, “my master not only sends his good wishes, but he has instructed me to say that he thinks you should marry Lord Robert Dudley. Indeed, he desires to meet Lord Robert.”
Robert’s face brightened beatifically at that, and he looked at Elizabeth as if to say, There! Not only Spain desires our marriage, but France too. The way has been smoothed for us …
He was taking too much for granted! Turning to the French ambassador, the Queen smiled sweetly. “It would scarcely be honorable to send a groom to see so great a king.”
A groom? How dare she refer to her Master of Horse, one of the proud Dudleys, thus! Robert burned with shame and fury, inflamed by the furtive smiles of the watching courtiers. Reptiles, all of them!
“Ah, but I cannot do without my Lord Robert,” the Queen was saying, “for he is like my little dog, and whenever he comes into a room, people know that I am near.”
How Robert kept his temper, he never knew, but anger was hot within him. What drove her to humiliate him publicly in this way? Did he mean so little to her? This was not the woman who had lain in his arms night after night. How could she be so two-faced, a female Janus? He thought of locking his door against her, but when it came to it, he could not bring himself to do so. And in the end he was glad of that, because when he was lying there spent but unsatisfied after a stormy row that ended in passionate embraces, Elizabeth reached over to her bedside table, handed him a document grantin
g him a pension of a thousand pounds a year—a staggeringly generous sum—and hope sprang anew.
After that his star was in the ascendant. He and she were as close as ever. Wherever she went, he was just one step behind. Occasionally, cloaked and masked, she accompanied him to taverns, shooting matches, bear pits, and other places a queen could never go. He would marvel at her, downing a flagon of ale with her coarsest subjects, or yelling out encouragement to the dog on whom she had wagered or the archer she favored. She reveled in the freedom of it, enjoying the chatter and opinions of ordinary people, honest plain folk who would not cozen her with flattery and tell her what she wanted to hear. It was instructive, to say the least.
One evening in late spring he took her to the Miter Inn in Holborn.
“Queen Elizabeth,” drawled an elderly fellow in his cups, “now there’s a woman, I say. King Harry to the life, God save her. But she’s a fool to tangle herself with that whoreson Dudley.”
“He murdered his wife,” a woman said, and there were several murmurs of assent. Aye, aye. That he did. Under the table Elizabeth laid a restraining hand on a bullish Robert’s hand.
“So I say the Queen should let him alone,” the old man continued, warming to his theme. “What do you think, mistress?” He leered at Elizabeth.
“I think we should ignore malicious rumors,” she replied, smiling beneath her heavily painted face. “But it is heartening to hear you speak lovingly of the Queen.”
“They ain’t rumors,” put in a girl in dishabille, who was plainly a whore.
“And you are intimately acquainted with the whoreson Dudley?” Elizabeth rounded on her, enjoying herself immensely. The company roared with laughter. Only Robert was stony-faced.
“But the Queen should get herself married soon,” the innkeeper chimed in. “Stands to reason, country needs an heir. And it ain’t natural, a woman wanting to stay a virgin.”
Elizabeth stiffened. “What ‘ain’t natural’ about that? It strikes me that a lot of women would be much happier without the ties of marriage.”
“Gawd, if they all said that, the world’d grind to a halt,” the old man commented.
“Aye, but it’s a man’s world, and there’s no denying that!” Elizabeth countered.
“You tell him, girl!” the whore said, and the other women chorused their approval.
“She still has to wed,” the innkeeper persisted.
“But not that bastard Dudley,” growled the old man. Robert’s hand moved instinctively to where his sword was normally belted to his waist. He had, of course, left it behind, but still carried in its place a small dagger. London was not a safe city at night. Elizabeth nudged him. It was time to leave.
“Well, my masters, you have been good company!” she declared. “I pray that we will meet again.”
One of the women was eyeing her closely.
“I’ve seen you before,” she said. “Was it here?”
“Very likely,” Elizabeth said briskly, and rose to her feet, downing the rest of her drink in one go and gathering her cloak around her. “God give you good night!” she cried.
When they left the inn, both she and Robert were unsteady due to the strength of the ale. There was a cherry tree outside, and he drew her into his arms beneath its concealing branches. He was very drunk and seemed to have forgotten about the way he had been insulted. He kissed her deeply, holding her close, then drew away and swept her a wobbly bow.
“Dance with me, my lady!” he demanded.
Elizabeth giggled. “Here?” she asked.
“Yes!” And he grabbed her hands, humming a tune and swinging her about, capering wildly around the tree. She was laughing so much when they had spun to a halt that she could barely catch her breath.
“Oh to have the freedom to do this every night!” she cried to the stars. “I do envy my subjects!”
As they strolled along by the river toward Whitehall and the night air had its effect, Robert stopped laughing and grew morose.
“How can you let them get away with such talk, Bess?” he protested.
“You forget, I was not the Queen tonight,” she said, “and they are ignorant folk, but loyal. Do not let their rude talk discomfit you. We have better things to think of.” And she drew close to him, slipping her arm inside his cloak.
At night she and Robin were lovers in all but the final consummation, sleeping spent in each other’s arms after increasingly inventive acts of passion. With a little imagination, there was no end to the things one could do to give and receive pleasure, and she often wondered why, for him, all this was not enough. By day, people paid court to Robert as if he were King already; he looked, carried himself, and behaved like a great prince.
Elizabeth, notwithstanding her growing reputation for parsimony—unfair, she thought, especially as she had inherited a bankrupt kingdom; she was only being careful—proved herself a generous lover. She restored the earldom of Warwick, confiscated after the execution of Robert’s father, to his brother Ambrose, and with it vast swathes of land. But she continued to evade the subject of marriage whenever Robert raised it, and he was no nearer to calming her fears about sex, although God knew he had tried. Each time he had done so, she’d seized the initiative for some other kind of love-play, or the tears had welled—and he did not have the heart to press her. It occurred to him that even if she did consent to marry him, it might be a marriage in name only.
It was well over a year since he had been cleared of culpability in Amy’s death—surely a decent enough interval for mourning. There was no reason now why he and the Queen should wait. But it was proving impossible to pin Elizabeth down on the matter, and she was still insisting that she might marry one of her many foreign suitors. It was increasingly hard to stay optimistic. Despair engulfed him.
That summer the court departed on a great progress to the eastern shires. At Ipswich they lodged in Christchurch Mansion, the magnificent house of Sir Edmund Withipoll—a monastery before King Harry dissolved it, although there was little left from the monks’ days, for now costly oak paneling clad the walls, the chambers were appointed with richly carved beds and chairs and tables, and supper had been served on silver-gilt plates. Robert was allocated a bedchamber next to the Queen’s. It was a big house, but not that big, and given the close proximity of everyone else, Elizabeth deemed it unsafe for him to visit her at night, so he was sleeping alone when he was awoken by the most plaintive voice. He sat up quickly, dazed, rubbing his eyes, and was astounded to find Lady Katherine Gray kneeling right by his bedside, weeping pitifully.
“My lord, I beg of you to help me,” she sobbed, her thin shoulders shaking.
“For God’s sake,” he hissed, “hush! The Queen sleeps next door. What would she say if she caught you here?”
“Oh, please,” sniffed Katherine, even more pathetically. She was a pale, slight girl, certainly not worth being discovered with him in what would look like an alarmingly compromising situation. And to make matters worse, he thought, envisaging a majestic presence looming in the doorway, Elizabeth loathed her, not only because Katherine was, by law, her heir—although she would never, ever acknowledge her as such—but also because the young woman had foolishly made it her business to court Spain, hoping that King Philip would persuade the Queen to declare Katherine her successor—her Catholic successor. But what the blazes was Katherine doing here, crying her heart out, in the middle of the night? More to the point, what would Elizabeth think if she heard her and found them here together? Robert was utterly mortified at the thought. Visions of the Tower took shape in his brain. He was desperate to get Katherine out of the room.
“Calm down and tell me what ails you,” he whispered, suddenly, horribly, aware that beneath the bedclothes he was naked. Oh God!
Katherine Gray swallowed and made an effort to stop crying. “My lord, you have influence with the Queen. Tell her—please tell her—that I beg her forgiveness. I have married the Earl of Hertford in secret, without her permission, for I d
id love him and she had said no—and now I am with child. My lord is abroad on an embassy, and I am alone and do not know what to do. I fear Her Majesty’s wrath so much I wish myself in a far land …”
Robert wished her in a far land too—in fact, anywhere, so long as it was not this bedchamber. Fear made him cruel. “Her righteous wrath,” he muttered, furious with the girl. “You stupid little fool. How do you think Her Majesty will react when she knows that the person next in line to her throne has married without her consent and is carrying an heir? Have you thought of the implications for the Queen—and the succession?”
Katherine crumpled in misery, crying harder than ever.
“Get out!” Robert commanded. “I cannot help you, nor would I if I could.”
She rose, a pathetic picture of woe, and left the room without another word. As soon as he heard the quiet click of the latch, Robert began to breathe more easily.
He realized that he would have to tell Elizabeth what Katherine had revealed to him. The matter was too weighty and dangerous, and if he concealed it, he would be guilty, probably, of misprision of treason. But the next morning, when he approached the Queen, who was wearing a loose gown edged with fur, and eating her breakfast of manchet bread, pottage, and light ale in the room that had been appointed her privy chamber, he found her frowning and distant.
“Have I offended Your Majesty?” he asked, panic seizing him at the thought of what she might have overheard.
“Leave us,” she commanded her women. When they had gone, she wiped her mouth and laid down her napkin. “Who was in your room last night?” she asked, her eyes blazing. “I swear I heard a woman’s voice.”
“You did, Bess, and it was not what you think,” Robert declared, mustering a wounded expression, as if to say, How could you think such ill of me? “There was a woman in my room, and I have come to tell you about her. It was Lady Katherine Gray.”
“Lady Katherine Gray?” Elizabeth echoed, astounded.