by Jane Caro
It was December, just over a year after the young king first sat upon his throne, and not much longer since I occupied mine. I was again at my desk when Cecil came to tell me the news, but I was not yearning to leave it as I had been on that similar occasion a few months before. Not simply because it was now cold and snow fell in flurries outside the window, but also because I had become more realistic about the demands of my office.
Much had happened in the year of 1560. As my ministers and I had long expected, my late sister Mary’s widower, Philip of Spain, offered me his hand in marriage. He did it perfunctorily and I was only too happy to reject him – an action that was greeted warmly by my advisors and my countrymen. There were too many bad memories of his Catholic influence upon my sister. No one then thought that my refusal to marry this one man might indicate my intention to refuse any other.
I told everyone I did not wish to marry, but my sister did not believe me, Philip did not, Cecil did not, no one at court believed me, least of all Robin Dudley. My ladies: Kat, even Blanche – who also never married – thought my protestations mere maidenly modesty. Indeed, in those early days, most approved of my reticence. It was seen as becoming and protective of my virginal reputation. But it was not taken seriously.
‘A wise decision, indeed.’ Robin Dudley brushed a stray hair from his fine scarlet doublet.
‘There are many more suitable applicants for Your Majesty’s hand than the King of Spain. Archduke Charles of Austria remains ardent in his declarations.’
I think Cecil was trying to comfort me in case I felt disappointed that no other man would ever want me. He need not have worried. I knew that I was referred to as the best match in my parish – by which was meant the world.
I was standing beside my chair at the head of the table; I took my seat and motioned my privy councillors to do the same. ‘I am only too happy to refuse my brother-in-law, despite the fact that he is, as yet, the only one of my suitors that I have actually met. You will remember, my lords, that we spent time together during my sister’s confinement.’
‘England would not have stood for another Spanish marriage, Your Grace.’ Sir Nicholas Bacon was also attempting to commiserate with a young woman on the loss of a very grand suitor.
‘Nor would England’s queen. You forget, my lords, that I saw firsthand how miserable the Spanish marriage made my poor sister and the terrible effect it had on her hold over her kingdom and the loyalty of her subjects. Do you think me so foolish that I have not learnt such lessons? Have you forgotten Calais? My sister went to her grave with it carved upon her heart.’
‘Nevertheless, Your Grace, it is important that you marry and that England has an heir.’ One of my senior councillors, Sir Francis Knollys, added his voice to the rest.
‘Would that I could marry as well as you have done, my lord.’ My remark drew a great shout of laughter from the men gathered around the table. Francis Knollys had married Mary Boleyn’s daughter, my first cousin Catherine Carey.
I surveyed the men of my council and marvelled at the new sense I now had of being surrounded by friends and supporters, where once I had felt so alone. Whatever differences my council and I may have had over policy or, repeatedly, my unmarried state, I knew that they saw their interests inextricably entwined with mine. Most of their desire to see me safely wed was for fear of a Catholic heir, either Mary of Scotland or her future progeny. But some of their desire was, by their reasoning, kindly intended. To these men it was the natural role of women to marry and bear children. At that point I think they saw my rule as temporary, although they would have stoutly denied it. To them, as men, I held the kingdom of England in trust and would hand it on to the tender care of my husband once I had one. What they could not realise was that, while I feared a Catholic heir as much as my ministers, I feared a husband more.
The death of Mary’s first husband, King Francois, the sickliest of Catherine de Medici’s large brood, was a turning point between my only royal cousin and me. No longer the Queen of France and childless, she had no role at the French court. Her mother, Mary of Guise, had died a few months before Francois, and so her daughter had no one she could trust at the helm of her distant kingdom. Unlike other royal princesses unluckily widowed, she had a crown of her own and could take possession of her throne by birthright. There would be no need to retire piously to a nunnery. Aye, no one knew then how little like a nun my lusty cousin would turn out to be. Strange that I – Christendom’s Protestant queen – am temperamentally much better suited to the celibate and contemplative life of a nun than my Catholic cousin ever was. Sometimes I think that God must have a sense of humour.
Four
When I was first queen, full of the excitement that followed such a long anticipated but still scarcely believable destiny, I felt exhilarated in a way I never had before and was never to do again. I had not yet quite learnt that the crown is as great a shackle as any set of irons. I needed someone to share my excitement with, a playmate, someone who could exult with me over my great good fortune. Cecil was my mentor and my sage, but he could never be my playmate. I doubt he ever played in his life. Even when scarce out of swaddling clothes I imagine him bespectacled, grey-bearded and ink-stained. William Cecil is a fine man to have by your side for the business of state – none finer – but useless when it comes to the business of life. Kat Ashley and Blanche Parry were more like favourite aunts than peers and even with my younger ladies, like Mary Sidney or my cousin Catherine Knollys, there remained distance of rank. To express my joy and excitement at my new circumstance, who better to turn to than the companion of my youth, Robin Dudley? He had excelled in helping me escape the stern eyes of our tutors when we were children; now I needed him to help me escape the stern gaze of secretary Cecil and the other solemn-faced men who wanted me to work and never to play.
I was young when I came to the throne. So young, it seems now as I catch sight of the raised veins on my hands, my fingers already beginning to twist a little with the ague. Then, my hands were smooth and white, my fingers long and elegantly slender. I loved to pull my white kid gloves on and off to attract men’s eyes. Now I pull my gloves on and am loath ever to pull them off in sight of strangers.
My wig feels hot and itchy and sits askew on my head. I tug at it and merely make it sit worse. Irritated, I pull the wig from my head and throw it across the room. The cool air on my close-cropped head soothes me.
I overheard a serving maid whisper that the Queen of Scots was still moving her lips in prayer as her head tumbled. Am I going mad? Have the cares of my unnatural life finally driven me out of my wits? If it be so, let it be so. I am past caring.
I have no memory of when I first met Robin. We shared our lessons when we were children. He was with me on the awful day we watched Queen Katherine Howard run for her life down the Long Gallery at Hampton Court. He was a prisoner in the Tower under sentence of death when I was a prisoner there, also under the shadow of the scaffold. When my sister died and I was queen, he was among the first to ride to Hatfield. In return, I made him my master of horse. He looked marvellous on a horse. He still does. If I have ever loved a man as other women love, then I have loved him. There was one impediment, of course. He already had a wife.
Marriage was the death of my mother, the mortification of my sister, the ruin of the Queen of Scots and it was dreams of marriage that almost proved my undoing, not once but twice. The first time was caused by my infatuation with my stepfather Thomas Seymour. It cost him his head and almost cost me mine. The next time I allowed myself to imagine a husband, it almost cost me my crown.
‘My liege!’ It was the night of my coronation and Robin was jesting a little and making great play of doffing his coronation cap with its exuberant feather and making an exaggerated leg. He was teasing me about my elevated status. It delighted me to be treated as a woman, particularly on that night of all nights, and I responded in kind.
‘You did
a fine job – for a horseman.’
All the great tableaux, banquets and performances were over, and I was in my private chamber. My ladies had removed my heavy finery and arrayed me in more comfortable clothing. I was tired and my muscles ached, but I had no desire for sleep. I’d never felt more wide awake in my life.
Robin had organised my coronation, the first of many grand events that he was to stage for me in his role as master of horse. He is a superb organiser, a natural showman. ‘Indeed, Your Grace. It seems I can spur the flanks of the great and the powerful as effectively as I can any fine mare.’
I heard shocked (yet amused) gasps from my ladies, who were still engaged in tending my discarded garments. I waved them away. ‘You may go.’ It had been a long and exciting day. I wanted to talk about the ceremony, to discover what others had thought of it. Had I passed this first great test?
My ladies left – all but Kat, who settled herself discreetly on a stool by my door and buried her greying head in her Bible, peering closely at the type. Queen or no, I could never have any man in my chambers without one of my ladies also present. As chief gentlewoman, the duty fell to her.
‘Jests aside, I want you to be my eyes. I was at the centre of everyone’s gaze so I cannot tell how the ceremony seemed to others. How was it received? What did they say about what they saw? I need you to see it for me and tell it to me.’
‘Your eyes?’ Robin came closer until he knelt beside me and could whisper words that only I could hear. ‘Beautiful though they undoubtedly are, there are other parts of your person that interest me more.’
‘You must content yourself with my eyes.’ My voice was equally low. I could not resist a glance towards Kat by the door, but she had not moved and seemed absorbed by her scripture.
‘Not your hair?’ His hand reached up and twisted a small curl of it around his finger. I did not resist. ‘Not your cheeks?’ And the same hand brushed my skin gently. I thrilled to his touch. ‘Not your lips?’
His voice was very low now, naught but a whisper. He raised his face towards mine, but I pulled away.
‘No,’ I said sharply. ‘Just my eyes.’
And I got up from my stool and put a safer distance between us. Robin sighed, but appeared undaunted. To my relief and regret, he stayed where he was.
‘Be serious, for a moment, tell me. What did people say about the ceremony? To you, and what did you overhear them saying to others?’
‘That you were beautiful and young and full of the juice and fervour of your father. Indeed, it was your father’s name I heard most often on people’s lips.’
Then Robin began to mimic the different pitches and accents of the Londoners and others whose words he had heard that day.
‘“They say she is the living image of the old king”, “The old king was just one such as her when he was a young man” and “She will be a fine mother of princes”. Oh, and this will please you: “You can tell just by looking at her that she is all English. None of that foreign blood to muddy things up.”’
He was right: it pleased me very much. I was so delighted I laughed out loud and danced away from him across my chamber, lifting my gown to give my legs full freedom of movement. ‘They said that? All of that?’
‘All of that, and much more.’ And in an instant he was beside me, hands around my waist, joining me in my wild, impromptu dance.
‘If I must gallop,’ I said, placing my hands on his shoulders as he whirled me around and lifted me high, ‘I suppose it is fitting I do it with my master of horse.’
Kat looked up from her Bible and laughed at us, but I could see the warning in her eye. I paid no heed. I was having fun. I felt loved, admired and in control. I wanted to share my joy and triumph with the man I loved, who was also the architect of the day’s triumph.
It was a charmed night. We laughed, we drank and we ate delicacies. We reminisced, we gossiped and we flirted. I don’t think he left my chamber until the dawn, when poor Kat was nodding with weariness in her corner. We did no harm and committed no sin. Of course, I knew there would be talk, although no one dared to say anything directly to me. There had been talk ever since I ascended my throne. I saw the glances and heard the whispering if the two of us walked through the court together. I held my head high and ignored it all. I had done nothing wrong; I was innocent before God, so I thought I had nothing to fear. I even had an argument with Kat about my relationship with Robin. On her knees she begged me to marry and put an end to all the disreputable rumours.
‘Marry whom, dear Kat?’
‘Any of the mighty princes who seek your hand. Dearest majesty, do not forget that if you should die without issue, there will be much bloodshed in your realm.’
‘Et tu, Kat?’ It always annoyed Kat when I spoke to her in Latin because she could not understand me.
Her face darkened with anger. ‘Rather than see that happen I would have strangled Your Majesty in her cradle!’
‘Kat … Kat! I have always been consistent – you, of all people know this – I have no wish to marry and never have had. But you also know how much tribulation I have suffered and how little joy I have had. Be not alarmed, good Kat. The graciousness I show Robin is nothing more than an expression of my gratitude for all that he has done for me and it relieves my burden a little to banter with him. You know that I have given no one cause to doubt my virtue.’
And then, I felt a little answering flare of anger myself as I saw her continue to shake her head stubbornly at my words. ‘Though if ever I had the will or had found pleasure in such a dishonourable life, from which may God preserve me, I do not know of anyone who could forbid me!’
I little knew just how close to danger I was sailing. As it has done often, fate punished me for relaxing my guard.
I can still see Robin as he was in those long lost days, before he grew old – as I have done – and lost his hair – as I have done. He was slim as a reed in his youth with none of the flesh that fills his doublet today. He was strong, as I discovered on the few occasions when he held me in his arms. (They are among my fondest memories and yet never fail to agitate and distress me.) His face was slender then, too, and his chin firm. His beard – about which he was vain – came to a perfect point. It was of a slightly more ginger hue than it is today. He dressed beautifully in peacock colours, his garments cut exquisitely to better display his slender waist and fine legs. Sometimes, when our flirtation was at its height, I let myself imagine what it might be like to be his wife.
‘She has a malady of the breast and it grows worse every time I see her. She groans with the pain of it and begs God to release her from her agony. I do what I can to soothe her but she only hurls insults at me.’ Robin was riding beside me after a good day’s hunting. We had galloped away from the rest of the party, but now we slowed to a walk and, out of hearing distance, talked with our usual intimacy, as we liked to do whenever we could snatch time alone.
‘Poor lady. I will send her some of the finest apricots from my greenhouse.’
‘That is kind, majesty, but I fear she will not receive them well, from you.’
‘Why not from me?’
‘She knows that I love you and she is jealous.’
‘It is your duty to love me as your queen.’
‘But not, perhaps, as I also love you – as a woman.’
‘You must not say such things to me, my eyes.’ And I flicked his cheek gently with one of my riding gloves. The nickname I had given Robin on the night of my coronation had stuck.
‘If I do not say such things to you I think I may burst.’
‘Then you must burst.’ And I spurred my horse on and rode away at speed, laughing at him.
But he had planted the seedling of a thought in my fertile brain, as, no doubt he had intended. If Amy Dudley died, well, then he and I might marry.
We did not speak of it directly. Neither of us was
foolhardy enough for that, but we both thought of it and when I saw him, and I saw him almost daily – his presence had become as necessary to me as breathing – I always asked after the health of his wife. In truth I half hoped, half feared, that her malady would worsen and she would sicken and die. What I did not want and never expected is that she should die under suspicious circumstances and, by doing so, achieve by her death what she could never achieve in her life, and keep her husband and me forever apart.
‘How? How did she die? I know the poor woman was ill, but not like to die!’
‘She broke her neck, Your Grace, falling down the stairs.’ It was Cecil, as always, who brought me the dreadful news.
‘How terrible!’
‘Indeed, but there are questions being asked about the manner of her demise.’
‘What questions?’
‘Did she fall or was she pushed?’
‘Did no one see? Was no one with her when she fell?’
‘That is the problem, Your Grace. She dismissed all her servants that morning, giving them leave to attend a fair. Those who knew her claim this was most unlike her. She was quite alone in the house when she died.’
‘Could it have been self-murder?’ An icy chill took hold of my soul as I whispered those words. Had the rumours about Dudley and me driven the poor woman to take her own life? Or was it the agony from the tumour in her breast that she could bear no more?
‘Perhaps, Your Grace. But there are darker rumours.’
‘Darker rumours?’
‘Some are saying her husband had her killed so he would be free to marry … some other lady.’
‘What other lady?’ My voice was suddenly hoarse.
‘You, Your Majesty, if you will forgive me.’
‘That is treason, my lord.’
‘Indeed, Your Majesty, and anyone who is caught saying so will be arrested.’
‘Good.’
