by Alison Weir
The Speaker droned on, clearly uncomfortable to be delivering such a lengthy petition that laid its message on rather heavily. “We fear the heretics in your realm, the malicious papists. From the Conquest to the present day, the kingdom was never left as it is now, without a certain heir. If Your Highness could conceive or imagine the comfort, surety, and delight that should come to you by beholding an imp of your own, it would sufficiently remove all your scruples.” Elizabeth was not particularly fond of any imps, even royal ones, so this particular argument left her singularly unmoved, and it did not even begin to address what must happen before the said imp could be beheld.
Having finished at last, the Speaker looked up nervously and held out the petition. Elizabeth nodded and took it from him as if it had been contaminated by poison.
“I thank you all,” she said, summoning up far more graciousness than she actually felt. “I will read over your petition and make my answer as soon as is convenient.” Then she made her escape in as stately a fashion as possible.
Robert hastened out after her.
“No!” she said when he caught up. “Not now, Robin. I have heard enough about marriage for today.” But there was Cecil, ready to waylay her at the door to the privy chamber. She groaned inwardly.
“You heard what Parliament wants?” she growled.
“Yes, madam.”
“And no doubt you want to give me your advice!”
“Madam, the matter is so deep that I cannot reach into it. But I will say, God send it—and you—a good issue!”
“Amen!” said Robert. Elizabeth sailed past them, not deigning to reply.
She would not, could not, give in. She was the Queen, by God! How dare they maneuver her into a corner on a matter that touched her so closely? If she married, she would do it in her own time and no one else’s.
She summoned the Speaker back, and received him and other members of the Commons in the gallery at Whitehall. Standing deliberately in front of a magnificent portrait of a menacing Henry VIII, she welcomed them as they knelt before her.
“I thank you all for your petition,” she said, smiling as benignly as was humanly possible. “I assure you that I am as worried about the succession as you are, especially since my illness. The matter occupied my mind constantly as I recuperated. And when I thought myself on my deathbed, I desired to live not so much for my own safety as for yours.” She was watching their faces closely. She knew she had won their sympathy.
“I labor under an intolerable burden,” she went on. “You ask me to name a successor, but I cannot wade into so deep a matter without weighty deliberation, and I am concerned about choosing the right heir. If my choice were to lead to civil war, you, my loving subjects, might lose your lives—but I hazard to lose both body and soul, for I am answerable to God for my actions.”
A few heads were nodding sagely. Many faces showed understanding. But now Elizabeth frowned. “It is not your place to petition me on this matter. But I know the difference between men who act out of love and those who make mischief. I have no wish to hear you speak of my death, for I do know that I am mortal, but I appreciate your concerns. I promise you, I will take further advice, and then I will give you an answer. And I assure you all,” she added, her smile radiant again, “that though, after my death, you may have many stepdames, you will never have a more natural mother than I mean to be to you all.”
It was a touch of genius, she felt. Her words had clearly left the deputation feeling comforted, and they departed happily with hearty words of thanks and much praise for the Queen’s wisdom and her care for them.
But two days later Elizabeth had to face a contingent from the House of Lords, who were not so easily quelled. They urged her, nay, demanded of her, to marry whomsoever she pleased, and as soon as she pleased. Then they had the nerve—the overweening audacity—to say that even Lord Robert would be a better choice than no husband at all. The look on Robert’s face would have stopped an army in full charge, and it was well that he had to control his anger, being in the Queen’s presence.
“Name your successor,” the Lords begged, “since law and order dies upon the death of princes.”
Elizabeth froze, and there was an awkward silence until Norfolk, unsubtle as usual, broke it. “The Queen of Scots has a claim to Your Majesty’s throne.”
“She is barred by the Act of Succession, and by virtue of being born out of the realm,” Elizabeth said coldly.
“Even so, madam, she takes her claim seriously, as do the Catholics in England and abroad. We, your faithful lords, are anxious to have it disposed of, for as mere natural Englishmen, we do not wish to be subject to a foreign prince, and Queen Mary is a stranger. The very stones in the streets would rebel at the prospect of her ruling this realm!” As would I, Elizabeth thought. Mary queening it in her pretty gowns in France, with her pretty head unbothered by state matters, was one thing; Mary queening it in Scotland, just on England’s doorstep, and scheming to get her throne, was quite another.
She stood there fuming, waiting for them to finish haranguing her. She did not bother to conceal her irritation. “My lords, I made allowances for the Commons, but I expect you to know better than to press me on such weighty matters. It is not impossible that I will marry.” She looked at Robert and was gratified to see that his rage had subsided and that he was regarding her with an expectant smile on his face. “I am not old,” she went on. “I am not yet thirty. The marks you see on my face are not wrinkles, they are the fading scars of smallpox; and although I might be old to start bearing children, God may send them to me if He wishes, as He did to St. Elizabeth. So you had better consider well what you are asking, for if I were to declare a successor from among my kinsfolk, it would cost England much blood.”
That silenced them! They left meekly as lambs, and as the days passed and it became clear that a chastened Parliament—obediently awaiting a response to its petitions—was deliberately refraining from debating the succession, Elizabeth began to believe that she had quelled the Lords and Commons into silence. But Robert was not prepared to be silent. One night, as they lay abed and she expected him to claim her as usual, he did not. Instead, he raised himself up on one elbow and looked down at her, and he was not teasing or amorous.
“Bess, with all this talk of marriage going on, you have not said a word of it to me, and yet you have promised to marry me this year. Why will you not satisfy Parliament and tell them that is your intention?”
Elizabeth’s tired mind fumbled for words. “Sweet Robin, I have not forgotten my promise. But I shall say to you what I intend to say to Parliament when I can face responding to those two great scrolls they had the nerve to force upon me. If you think that I have vowed or determined never to trade the single life for marriage, put that out of your mind, for your belief is awry.” She reached up and traced his cheek and beard with her finger. “I love you, Robin. And though I think the single life would be possible for a private woman, I do strive to tell myself that it is not meet for a prince. Be patient with me a short while longer, for if I can bend my liking to your need, I will not fail you.”
“But you have promised,” Robert persisted. “Is this a woman’s promise?” He was irate now.
“Anger makes dull men witty, but it keeps them poor,” she riposted. “I have promised, on the word of a prince!”
“Then why the ifs and the striving? Surely you knew your mind when you gave that promise?”
Elizabeth flared. “Of course I did! But there is far more to the matter than two lovers plighting their troth. If I have given you an answer answerless, it is because you, like Parliament, have forced me to it!”
“Why can you never be straightforward?” Robert flung back. “With you, all is obfuscation and delay! What is an answer answerless if it is not another of your stalling tactics? Elizabeth, the country needs an heir. I need an heir. I need a wife too, and the only woman I want is you. But if you keep me waiting much longer, I swear I will look elsewhere.”
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br /> They both drew back, appalled—he at having blurted out what had sometimes, disturbingly, crept into his mind lately, and she at the notion that he might abandon her and find love with a lesser mortal.
“Get out,” she snarled, picking up a pillow and hurling it at him, then kicking him for good measure.
“Don’t worry, I’m going!” Robert shouted, not caring who heard. And, ducking as the next pillow came hurtling through the air, he grabbed his nightgown, pulled it on furiously, and stamped back to his own room.
For ten days after that he did not attend Elizabeth in the court or attempt to come to her chamber at night. At first anger tided her along, and jealousy. Had he—the traitor—dared to carry out his threat? Was he at this very moment paying court to some bejeweled hussy with a rich father and fat manors? She almost howled at the thought. By God, she’d have both their heads! But as the days went by with no sight of Robert, and whispers proliferating at court about a rift, she grew concerned. Where was he? How dare he take leave of absence without permission? She needed him here, on the council, where his duty lay—not to mention by her side and in her bed.
She sat sulking through council meetings, snapping at everyone. The item highest on the agenda was the Queen of Scots’ marriage. At least, Elizabeth reflected crossly, it was not hers. She could almost feel some sisterly affinity with her rival, for it seemed that queens were the particular prey of marriage-making male advisers. That might just account for Mary having recently made overtures of friendship. There had even been talk of a meeting between the two queens. Elizabeth wasn’t sure that she wanted to come face-to-face with the cousin whose beauty was lauded throughout Christendom; Heaven forbid, she herself, nine years the senior, might be found wanting! And there were so many contentious matters that lay between them, not the least of which was Mary’s disquieting plan to marry King Philip’s son, Don Carlos.
Mary’s motives were deplorably transparent. She was obviously aiming for a strong Catholic alliance that would overthrow Cecil’s carefully negotiated Treaty of Edinburgh and put pressure on Elizabeth to acknowledge her as her heir—at the very least! And if Mary married Don Carlos, the might of Spain could end up camping right on Elizabeth’s doorstep, threatening invasion. Not to be tolerated!
But Elizabeth knew that Mary had been duped. She had gotten it into her pretty, brainless head that Don Carlos was a brave and gallant prince who would champion all her dangerous causes. But through her rather better diplomatic channels, Elizabeth was aware that the Spanish prince was not only deformed, but mad. He liked to torture animals. He was sadistic and violent toward servants and the girls he pursued with evil intent. There was even a tale that, misliking a new pair of shoes, he had forced the hapless cobbler to eat them. A fine husband for the Queen of Scots he would make!
“But she is determined to have him,” Cecil said, having discussed all this with Elizabeth.
“I have warned her that if she marries Don Carlos, I would consider her my enemy forever afterward,” Elizabeth told him. “I wrote to her; I said, consider well your steps. I also offered England’s firm friendship if she would be guided by me in her choice of husband.”
“I doubt she will agree to that,” Sussex observed, shaking his head.
“I recall Your Majesty suggesting that Queen Mary might wed an English lord,” Cecil remembered. “That might be a way of keeping Scotland friendly.”
An idea occurred to Elizabeth then, an idea so perfect in most ways that it almost took her breath away. Here was her opportunity to neutralize the threat posed by Mary Stuart—and be revenged on the treacherous Robert.
She would offer him as a husband for the Queen of Scots.
That would pay him back for putting unkind pressure on her—and no doubt on Parliament—and for his monstrous threat to look elsewhere for a wife. Well, she would give him one, served up on a platter with red hair and a crown, just as he liked them!
“We will offer her Lord Robert,” she announced, beaming.
“Lord Robert?” echoed her astonished councillors, to a man.
“Lord Robert,” she affirmed, looking very pleased with herself.
“Madam,” Cecil said, “should we not wait until his lordship returns from Warwick before discussing this?”
“Warwick?” It was now Elizabeth’s turn to be astonished. What the devil was he up to there? Visions of him secretly plighting his troth to some well-dowered milksop country bumpkin came to mind, followed by a highly satisfying fantasy of his being dragged in chains to the Tower, the headsman plodding vengefully at his heels.
“Did you not know, madam? He is visiting his brother.”
She recovered herself hastily and took refuge in a lie. “Of course, yes. But it will do no harm if we discuss my proposal in his absence. You may persuade me it is a foolish idea, and then there will be no need to bother him with it. But gentlemen,” and she looked at them with gimlet eyes, thinking rapidly, “there could be many good reasons for such a marriage. Lord Robert’s loyalty has never been in doubt. He is indebted to me for his advancement, and he is not the man to forget it. He would work tirelessly to represent our interests in Scotland. Once wed to him, Queen Mary would be out of the marriage market, and the threat from Spain would recede. Moreover, he is a staunch Protestant, and as such would be far more acceptable to the Lords of the Congregation than Don Carlos, who is not only Catholic but insane.” The more she considered it, the more pleased she was with herself for thinking up such a marriage.
Her councillors heard her out patiently, but when she fell silent, Cecil spoke. “These are strong justifications for the match, madam, but there is one matter that I must raise, and I’m sure I speak for us all. It was everyone’s understanding that Your Majesty had promised to marry Lord Robert yourself, and very soon.”
“It is what we have all hoped and prayed for,” Bacon put in.
Norfolk’s face said plainly that he was neither hoping nor praying for any such thing, but he nodded and said “Aye” along with the rest.
“My lords, I am willing to make this sacrifice for the future security of my realm,” Elizabeth said, determined to argue her corner but suddenly realizing what the sacrifice would actually entail. Never to see Robert again, or but rarely; nevermore to enjoy his stimulating companionship, lie in his arms, or feast her eyes on the manly charms that so delighted her. Already she was jealous of pretty, brainless Mary enjoying that which she had denied herself. In fact, Elizabeth could not bear the thought. Of course it might be too late—Robert might already be wed to the country bumpkin, which prospect she could not bear either. Oh, why, why had she quarreled with him? Now look what he had made her do! She would either have to give him up to the Queen of Scots or suffer the humiliation of seeing him married to another. God’s blood, what a mess!
She swallowed. She must be a queen first, a woman second. That was the only way to retain the respect of the men who served her. “I want to see England and Scotland draw close in friendship,” she declared bravely. “It will be hard for me to renounce Lord Robert, but I will do it willingly for the advantage of my people.” She consoled herself with the thought that royal marriage negotiations were usually so prolonged, it would be months, if not years—or not at all—before she had to part with her Eyes. She was surprised to find herself thinking of him as hers once more, when only minutes before she had been prepared to consign him to oblivion—or the Scottish court. It amounted to the same thing.
Cecil was beaming at her approvingly. Oh, she knew his game. Nothing would please him more than to see Robert exiled to Scotland and swaggering about in his gallant finery among the thistles and the sheep. Once he was safely on his way north, her court would once more be open house to the ambassadors of princes hopeful to win her hand—and her kingdom. “An excellent plan, madam,” Cecil said.
But the others looked dubious.
“With respect, it is unlikely that the Queen of Scots will agree,” Sussex warned.
“She may s
urprise us,” Elizabeth said, with more conviction than she felt. “After all, Lord Robert is a very proper man, and she has known only a weak, sickly boy for a husband. Let her once set eyes on his lordship and her opinions may rapidly change!” She cleared her throat, feeling murderous toward both of them at the thought. “Gentlemen, I will see Queen Mary’s ambassador, and raise the matter with him.”
And I will do it now, she thought, rising from her chair, before I lose my nerve.
She summoned the ambassador, Sir William Maitland, as suave and crafty a diplomat as one could hope (or not) to meet. He was a dark, personable fellow whose lean, inoffensive features concealed one of the most clever and devious minds in Scotland. Naturally he wore the plain black attire favored by the Calvinist Scottish lords, but he wore it with elegance, and it was of good cloth. Elizabeth received him in private, smiling munificently, then took a deep breath.
“Sir William, as a fellow sovereign, we are conscious of the problems facing your good mistress Queen Mary in finding a suitable husband,” she said.
“Your Majesty is most kind to concern yourself with Queen Mary’s affairs,” Maitland said smoothly, anticipating a tirade against the appalling Don Carlos.
“I will do more than that for her,” Elizabeth continued. “I am prepared to offer her a husband in whom Nature has planted so many graces that she will prefer him to all the princes in the world.”
“And who might that be, madam?” Maitland asked.
“Lord Robert Dudley,” Elizabeth replied, as if a fanfare was sounding in the background. To her fury, Maitland chuckled.
“A merry jest, madam! Ha! Ha!”
“I was not jesting,” she barked.
He had the grace to look embarrassed. “Ah. Of course. A thousand pardons, madam.” He was actually stuttering. “I had understood that you were to marry Lord Robert yourself. Well, ahem, indeed, this is great proof of the love you bear my queen, that you are willing to give her something—I should say someone—so dearly prized by yourself.”