by G Lawrence
His pressed his lips to mine with eagerness. Although the feel of his skin on mine, and his body close to me was exciting, I could not help my old fears returning. I longed for intimacy, and yet I feared it. How I wished I could indeed be another woman: a woman who did not fear closeness; a woman who could give herself up to her passions; a woman who could love, and be loved, as she wanted so desperately to be. But there was always fear for me, in the physical expression of love. It had been that way since the days when Thomas Seymour had hunted me.
A footstep on the path made us draw back. Robin’s face was flushed in the shadows of the bower. We listened as the steps moved on. He reached out and put a finger on my lips, resting it there as he gazed into my eyes. “You have been so distant of late,” he said quietly. “I thought I had lost you.”
“You will never lose me, Robin.” I kissed the finger on my lips and he removed it. “I am the Queen, am I not? Queens are hard to lose.”
“I thought you were not she, this day?”
I smiled sadly. “That which we wish for seldom comes to pass, Robin.”
“It could do,” he insisted. “If you had the courage to make it so.” I groaned, stepped away from him and walked out of the bower. He chased after me and took hold of my arm, twisting me about to face him. “You do nothing but avoid the love between us!” His handsome face was drawn with fury. I pulled my arm from his grasp.
“And you do nothing but seek to pressure me into something for which I am not ready!” I shouted back, not caring that others might hear me. “Each day! Every day! Every moment! In every conversation, and with every word, Robin! There is nothing in your mind but marriage. I have had nothing from you for months but complaints, sulking, and pressure. You accuse me of avoiding my love for you? Perhaps I do, for you are killing it, my lord! You strangle it inside me! You allow it not air to breathe, nor room to stretch its limbs. Perhaps I avoid thinking on it for I know I will only have to mourn its demise. You are the one at fault here, Robin! You!”
Robin stared at me as though he knew not who I was. “I?” he muttered. “I… I kill the love between us?” He scowled. “I am not the one trying to avoid marriage at all costs, Elizabeth.”
“And I am not the one working against the wishes of my sovereign, and the woman I claim to love by promising my loyalty to other kings!”
The words just came out, and then I could not stop more tumbling from my lips. All my pent up anger of the last months came rushing to the surface of my skin. “I am not the one plotting with the Spanish ambassador, am I, Robin? I am not the one in cahoots with Sidney to make promise that the Catholic faith will be restored to England, am I, Robin? I am not the one taking on the mantle of my Dudley forebears by betraying my Queen and becoming a traitor to her!”
Robin’s face was pale with amazement. He blinked and his face turned grey. I curled my lip. How could I have kissed him a moment ago? How could I have forgotten myself… forgotten his deeds? “Oh yes, Robin, I know all you have been up to these past months… Do you know that I could have had your head? Do you understand how far you have gone? You accuse me of killing the love between us, but you are the one who has betrayed me. You have risked all that we had together! And for what? To become King… Do not think I do not know that ambition is stronger within you than your love for me! It is all too clear, my lord!”
“Elizabeth…” He went to move towards me, and that old desperate expression I hated so was back on his face. I stepped away from him.
“You accuse me of much, my lord,” I said coldly. “Yet I know you to be guilty of far more evil than I have done. And yet I have not put you in irons, locked you in the Tower, nor taken your head and lands, as my father would have done. I have kept you alive, Robin, and unharmed. I have not punished you, nor revealed your treachery. I have known all you have done and even promoted you further! I did so because I still love you, despite all you have done. Think on that, my lord, when you sit alone at night listing my failings and my flaws. Think on the fact that you are only alive because of the love I bear for you. Think on the fact that my love has never been so tested, that I have never been so angered at a person and yet allowed them to keep their liberty and my friendship. Think on all those things, Robin, and consider how fortunate you are to have such a queen!”
I turned from him and almost ran away. Joining the party of Lady Clinton I found none had noted my absence. To them, after all, I was just a maid, and of little consequence. Robin did not join us. He left for his quarters and I did not see him for days. When he returned, nothing was said about our argument. Once more, we hid in silence.
I gave Robin a pension of one thousand pounds a year, as well as more offices which gave him political sway. I was in need of friends, in such dangerous times as these, but in many ways, these gifts were offerings to my guilt. I knew I was at least partly to blame for his actions for I had offered him false hope. He was but acting on that. Robin was pleased with this sign of favour, and became a great deal more attentive and conciliatory than he had been. I hoped that my words had sunk in, and he understood what pain he had caused me. But I also believed this would not last.
There was a creature lurking between us now, and that creature was Robin’s ambition.
Chapter Thirty-One
Westminster Palace
Winter 1561
On the 26th of December that year, I finally elevated a Dudley to the House of Lords. It was not Robin, however, who received the honour, but his brother, Ambrose. I liked Ambrose… not as much as I liked Robin, of course, but Ambrose was the elder, and, in fairness, he should have the title of Earl before his brother. I restored the Castle of Warwick to the family, along with lands and other estates, and there was a celebration at court. What came as a surprise to many was how happy Robin was at his brother’s elevation.
“It demonstrates the rise of my house, Majesty,” he said as we walked in the privy gardens. “And the trust you have in us. Ambrose is delighted. You could not have a more loyal servant in the House of Lords.”
“I am pleased you have taken the news so well, Robin,” I admitted. “I had thought you might be affronted, and your pride would be bruised.”
Robin smiled. “I am not as proud, Majesty, as many believe me to be. And not so foolish that I cannot see what a good event this is for my house.”
I put my hand onto his arm, and gazed at him with gentle eyes. I enjoyed it when Robin surprised me, and nothing surprised me more than him being happy to see another elevated rather than him. Perhaps he has begun to understand, I thought. And will now put his days of pride and brashness behind him. Perhaps my words have shown him the error of his ways.
Later that month, Robin was admitted to membership of the Inner Temple of the Inns of Court. The Inns of Court governed barristers in England and Wales. It was also where most London barristers trained and studied. The benchers, or Masters of the Bench, wanted to honour Robin as he had supported them in a land dispute, and so they held a celebration for their new member, with a feast and plays. We heard of these entertainments at court, and heard that all the plays’ themes revolved about marriage, and especially about the duty of a sovereign to marry. Clearly put on to please Robin, they made me wonder if he had not learnt so much after all.
Robin was not the only one enjoying plays that season. Reports came from Randolph, my ambassador in Scotland, that Mary was turning her court into a showcase of talent. My cousin wrote verse and encouraged poets to join her court. She invited philosophers and musicians, and was rumoured to be particularly fond of one new arrival; an Italian named Master David Riccio, or Rizzio, who had become one of her personal musicians. Mary was fond of disguisings and masques, as with her height she could easily pass for a man and fool her court. It was also rumoured she took to disguising herself as a servant and wandering the streets of Edinburgh with her Maries. Having recently understood the freedom such a disguise could offer, I understood why she enjoyed this diversion.
Mary put h
er court in Scotland into mourning that December to mark the anniversary of her husband François’s death. Did her thoughts hark back to the time she had been Queen of France and Scotland, when the world had been ready to fall at her feet? Had she ever loved that weak and feeble boy whom she had been wed to? What did she think of her fate now? Whatever her thoughts about François, Mary was determined to make the best of what she had been offered now, and that I could applaud.
*
Just before Christmas, my cousin Margaret Douglas, Countess of Lennox offered me an early New Year’s present by falling under Cecil’s suspicion after sending letters to powerful Catholic houses in Spain and France. The unlucky Countess, who had only recently been released from house arrest, was discovered passing letters to various enemies of England. In actual fact, the letters were rather dull. Written with her heavy Scot’s accents braying through the pages, they all noted her link to the royal line, through her mother, Margaret Tudor, and protested she had a valuable, legitimate place in the succession. The term legitimate was used many times. Whilst they made dreary reading, these letters clearly questioned my right to the throne by insinuating that Margaret was legitimate, where I was not. It was ironic, in some ways, since Margaret’s parents had petitioned the Pope to annul their marriage when she was a child, and her status was often called into question because of it. The Pope had proclaimed Margaret legitimate, despite the dissolution of her parent’s marriage, but there were many in England and in Scotland, where she had grown up, who saw her as a bastard.
Perhaps it was this shadow, one that had followed her all her life, which made her so aggressive towards me and my status, for I had been declared a bastard too. In me, perhaps, she heard an echo of her own fears. In asserting her legitimacy over and over, she sought to impress on others the difference between us.
In these letters, she sung sweet praises of her boys, particularly the eldest, Henry Darnley, and described herself as “the second person” in the realm of England, with a right to be my heir, overlooking the claims of Mary of Scots, or the Greys. I could almost see her heavily-lidded eyes narrowing on the throne she believed should already be hers…
“That woman will never learn,” I said to Cecil as we talked about the discovery of Margaret’s treachery. “Not even if I take her head, she will never learn. Do you remember when I was in my sister’s custody and Margaret set up a kitchen under my rooms, so she could plague me with banging, crashing, and ill smells of fish frying at all hours of the day and night? I have never lived near a kitchen since, after that experience. She is a petty soul, that one.”
“She has, perhaps, moved on in her ambition, Majesty, from merely attempting to annoy you to acting with treasonous intent.” Cecil’s voice was dry, but serious. “She is a dangerous Catholic intriguer, and must be arrested.”
I glanced up at Cecil, my smile wide and wicked. “Nothing would give me greater pleasure, Spirit,” I announced with glee. “Take her, her husband, both her sons, all her daughters and her servants, will you? It will be delightful to hear her screams of angst mingle with carols throughout the season of Christmas.”
My cousin of Lennox should have been used to being on the wrong side of her monarch by now. She had been imprisoned by my father and had come close to losing her head for daring to enter into a privy contract of marriage with Lord Thomas Howard, and had been almost placed under house arrest a few years later when my father uncovered her love affair with another Howard, Lord Charles. It was only because my father had been fond of his niece, Margett, as he had called her, that she escaped with her life. My brother had been none too fond of her, since she was a Catholic, but Margaret had been sensible enough to hide her beliefs better than my sister had during Edward’s reign. She had lived a life of favour under my sister, and I had been lenient with her, despite knowing that she despised me. But there comes a time when one cannot be lenient any longer, and that time was now. Lennox was held in London, but Margaret tarried in their country estates, claiming illness. Since I had once used such a ruse myself, I knew this was a feint, but I decided to wait for the Countess. Cecil had her house under surveillance in any case.
At times, it seemed those most likely to do me harm were those of my own blood. As I thought on that, I thought of what I had said to Maitland.
Was it not proved true, then, as I had said, that a prince may never look on his heirs with peace in his heart? My sister had not looked happily upon me, and my brother not on her. And I, with cousins aplenty waiting to do me harm, or cause trouble in my realm, perhaps I had it worst of all… Or perhaps not. Having so many possible heirs, even if they were troublesome, meant that armies of disaffected men were not lining up behind one particular candidate.
To name an heir would unite my enemies. I was not one to willingly hand arrows to those poised to shoot me.
*
As snow floated over the gardens of Westminster Palace and settled on rooftops about London, Robin called for his men to put on a play for the court’s amusement. We gathered in the great hall, gowns and tunics of red, blue, pink and gold glittering under the orange blaze of the torches. Ladies giggled soft in the darkness as men whispered in their ears, spilling secrets. I settled on my dais with a cushion to support my aching back…. the latest part of my body which had decided to pain me… Holding a cup of small ale in my hands, and tapping my feet, I watched as the players arrived to tell their tale.
The play chosen was The Tragedy of Gorboduc, and had been already shown at the Inner Temple. It was about Gorboduc, an ancient King of Britain, whose country descended into chaos when he divided his country amongst his heirs, unable to choose only one to succeed him. His heirs fought each other, leading to civil war and the death of Gorboduc and his Queen. Afterwards, for want of a sole heir, the country fell into disorder and anarchy. The play ended as a foreign prince invaded the fragile state, taking the throne by force. It was a morality play and was, I realised, aimed directly at me, both for not naming an heir, nor providing one from my reluctant womb. It was also the most tedious performance I had ever sat through, which did nothing to improve my mood. The play unfolded, and I heard nothing but the complaints of Robin who wanted to marry me, and the worries of Cecil, who wanted me to get breeding, emerge through the lips of the players. As I sat through this barely concealed, ill-executed farce of a reprimand, anger rose, bitter in my belly.
As I listened to Eubulus, the King’s secretary, bemoan the fate of his country, mourning that Parliament should have been called upon to decide on the succession since the King had failed to, I started to tap my fingers on my armrest with irritation. When he continued to ramble on, informing the audience that justice would prevail, no matter the poor actions of the King, I grew ever more aggravated. The political uncertainty of my refusal to name an heir was the whole point here. I was apparently condemning my people to the misery of certain war; to the chaos of a realm left without a proper ruler. I was being irresponsible, careless, reckless. Robin was not always a subtle man. This was the least subtle gesture he had made thus far.
He had not listened to me. He had learned nothing. Did he think this was a cunning way to shove me into marriage? What a fool my favourite was.
As the play ended by saying that an English successor should be chosen by the people if there was no named heir, I almost got up and left. They were talking of Katherine Grey and her son, of course. No one wanted the spoilt son of the Lennoxes on the throne, and there were few who would support Mary of Scots, but apparently the child of this insolent, traitorous girl was suitable!
“A dull play for a dull day, my lord,” I noted sharply to Robin as he pranced over, his eyes bright with expectation. I was delighted to see the happiness tumble from his face.
“I thought Your Majesty would enjoy this myth of history, being ever an avid reader of historical works,” he replied, his eyes suddenly less sure.
“You thought wrong, Robin,” I said. “I found the subject matter tiresome, the sentiments ri
diculous and the performance dreary. Do see that you come up with something entertaining next time, won’t you? Or I shall be forced to employ a new Master of Revels. It would seem your imagination has run as dry as a pond in the desert. There are many others, eager for such a prestigious role, waiting for a chance. After today, I have a mind to give it to them.”
I walked away from him, stopping to talk with Admiral Clinton and Geraldine, who chuckled at my descriptions of the play as lacklustre and tedious. They laughed heartily as I impersonated one of the more absurd players; a man who believed shouting was the best method of creating dramatic effect. Robin was not pleased with the way I had responded. Let him sulk, I thought irritably. I was not about to be altered in my course for my reign or this country by a lifeless play!
*
Later that week, de Quadra came to discuss resuming talks about the suit of Archduke Charles. “I have made up my mind to marry none whom I have not seen or known in person, Your Eminence,” I interjected as he extolled the virtues of the Archduke Charles again. “And consequently, I may be obliged therefore to marry in England, in which case I can think of no person more fitting than my Lord Robin Dudley.”