His Last Letter

by Jeane Westin

  Robert knew the duke blamed Robert’s influence and not his own arrogance for the queen’s dislike. He was furious that Robert Dudley had been named to follow immediately behind Elizabeth’s gold-brocaded litter and his brother, Ambrose Dudley, to lead her horse.

  Robert saw Ambrose take his place, holding the lead reins of two white horses. The queen exited the chapel and with a look of solemn triumph on her face was assisted into the golden litter, open so that her people could see her and she could see her people. Pride swelled in Robert’s chest. This is my love who is now queen.

  The long train of nobles and knights, city officials and guilds proceeded through the length of London in the Procession of Recognition, down Cheapside, past Smithfield floating with the ghosts of Protestant martyrs and on to Fleet Street toward King Street that led to Whitehall and Westminster Abbey beyond. The streets had been swept, and citizens wore their best, except for the poor, who had no best but wore their everyday tatters joyously. Each towering, half-timbered house bent together over the streets was dressed in rich tapestries and colorful banners.

  Citizens knelt streetside and called: “God bless our queen!” At every intersection, poems and prayers, even short plays, were recited for her, some practiced, some halting, but all heartfelt. The queen waved to all and stopped to listen. “Thank you, my good and well-loved subjects,” she called repeatedly in the tender language she used to all her gathered people, as if she were a mother talking to beloved children.

  She patted the head of a ragged little girl, who handed her a bunch of gray winter rosemary with her mitten-covered hands. The golden queen kissed the sprigs and laid them on her Bible.

  It was freezing. Robert wondered how Bess could bear the cold even under lap furs. But when she looked back for him, as she did often, her face shone with all the joy she had been denied for her twenty-five years of life. As they passed Fleet River, he called: “Are you cold, Majesty?”

  “No, my lord, I feel nothing but the firm weight of the crown on my head.”

  Robert rejoiced with her as four pageants were presented along the way. The last one allowed Elizabeth to show herself to the people at her best. Robert knew they would never forget it, as he would not. This was her stage and her audience.

  She smiled and waved and said in a voice many could hear, “I shall continue your good lady and be as good unto you as ever a queen was unto her people. No will in me can lack; neither shall there lack any power. For the safety and quietness of you all, I will not spare, if need be, to spend my blood.”

  The cheers were deafening and Robert knew that she had locked herself into their hearts today as she had his long ago, and taken the key.

  As they rode the last mile, he wondered from where such speech full of grandeur had come. Was it the magic of the Boleyn temptress combined with Henry’s majesty that gave Bess the words and voice she needed just when she needed them, words that might live on when all on earth now were gone?

  His own heart soared with her remembered phrases, though he knew beyond doubt that she loved England more than she loved him. His heart ached as if it would never stop.

  Hours later, when they finally passed through the Holbein Gate at Whitehall on their way to the abbey, she was as upright as when she’d begun her journey to the throne. The little girl’s rosemary remained on her lap.

  Robert saw a thousand candles lighting Westminster Abbey for Elizabeth’s crowning. The Archbishop of Canterbury had refused to speak the coronation service in English, so Elizabeth had chosen the Bishop of Carlisle, who had fewer scruples and a brighter future. He awaited her now at the throne of Edward the Confessor.

  The long service and anointment was a blur of smoking candles and shuffling feet to him until Elizabeth, the anointed queen of England, walked back down the scarlet-clad aisle, her train carried by a sour-faced Duchess of Norfolk. Elizabeth wore a brilliant smile under her high-arched Plantagenet nose and carried her orb and scepter as if they had no weight at all. She had won, Robert knew. Escaped the ax her jealous sister had planned for her beautiful neck, escaped even those who had meant her good, like Thomas Wyatt. He had raised rebellion in her name and nearly brought her to the block.

  As she reached Robert kneeling in the aisle, she slowed and he looked up. Her eyes were swimming with pride and emotion. He could not help but wink before she moved on. He would have taken her to his breast if such a thing were possible, but she had stopped in recognition of him. That was enough for now.

  Still, Robert knew that Elizabeth was not safe on her throne, might never be safe. Disaffected English Catholics thought killing her was their assurance of heaven, and Protestants wanted her to go further in changing the Church than she would be willing to go, always treading the solid middle ground . . . making haste slowly. The poison cup and the dagger would be a constant threat. Outside her realm Spain and France coveted her island. Enemies crowded Elizabeth’s England from within and without. He breathed deeply, knowing that he alone would be her chief guard, with his body between her and any assassin. At this moment of her glory he dedicated the rest of his life to her happiness and safety.

  Yet, as queen of England, she had come this far and he did not doubt that she would cling to her throne with the strength of her father’s right and for her mother’s vindication. And at her side, he would stand tall.

  That night at Whitehall Palace in the great hall the coronation dinner lasted until one in the morning. Norfolk had his moment when, as the fully armored Earl Marshal, he rode his horse into the hall and in an ancient ritual threw down his gauntlet: “I, the Earl Marshal of England, challenge any man to dispute Elizabeth Tudor’s right to the throne.”

  Bess was delighted with the ceremony and raised her cup to Norfolk, but her gaze was on Robert. Now she had to hide nothing. Who could deny her?

  But he couldn’t rush to her and lift her from her throne, holding her close for all to see.

  Robert Dudley had to hide everything.

  CHAPTER 8

  ALWAYS THE SAME

  ELIZABETH

  Early December 1585

  Greenwich Palace

  Robin had not been gone four days as her lieutenant general, but to Elizabeth it seemed forever. Why had he not returned? Did he think that she would truly allow him to go from her? She must have him by her side always. This sorry Holland business had been thrust upon her and she regretted having agreed to it.

  She paced to the end of her privy chamber and back many times, her hands warming in a small ermine muff. Usually, she loved the plush white fur on her fingers, reminding her of Robin’s soft beard, but today it was a poor substitute for the touch she really needed. Soon, she heard a small commotion in her antechamber and went to stand by her writing table, where Lord Burghley also stood. At last, Robin had returned!

  The queen’s gentleman usher admitted an exhausted courier, who knelt as Elizabeth took a vanilla comfit from her pocket to sweeten her stomach and stared at her antechamber doors with a ready smile of welcome. “Master Crowley, does the Earl of Leicester follow close behind?” By the courier’s face, she could tell he had news that would not be to her liking.

  “Majesty,” the courier said looking up. “When I reached Harwich, my lord Leicester was beyond recall.”

  “Beyond recall!” She began to pace to the huge fireplace and back, to stand with her hands on her hips, the spreading red on her neck showing its true color beneath the white Mask of Youth. “Beyond recall? No subject is ever beyond recall of his sovereign!”

  Crowley cleared his dusty throat and shifted to his other knee, but lowered his head. “Your Grace, His Lordship with all his fleet had cleared the harbor and with a good following wind was beating for the Holland coast.”

  Elizabeth paced about and then advanced on the courier. “Are there no other fast ships in my realm? Why did you not have one sent after him speedily?” She stomped away and back again in a fury, and thrust out her hand. “Return my letter to me.”

  The co
urier shifted uneasily, opening a pouch and withdrawing the sealed letter. “Majesty, I tried first to deliver it to Leicester House on the Strand, as you instructed me.”

  Elizabeth’s face swelled now, but before her temper rose further, Burghley, who had been waiting quietly leaning on the writing table, spoke: “Majesty, may I have your leave to question the man?”

  She nodded, unable to deny her councilor. She swallowed her rage, Cecil’s calm voice bringing her back from supreme displeasure and disappointment. She had never wanted Robin to go to war, to be beyond her reach for weeks, months. Could it be years?

  The Lord Treasurer spoke softly, but his chain of office gave him authority. “Tell me, Master Courier, what you did exactly.”

  “My lord Burghley, when I reached Leicester House, I found the earl already gone some two days from London, with all troops, his company of horse and the baggage train. Although the countess said she would follow her husband soon and demanded the letter, I did not give it to her.” He took a deep breath. “Many baggage wagons were packed in the courtyard, and a great gold-trimmed coach with four white horses, very handsome with gold-trimmed harness, stood at the door.”

  Her Majesty advanced on the courier, frowning. “Christ’s bones and chains! She leaves for Holland?” The queen’s color was now very high and her face seemed to swell, setting the courier to trembling. “And she dared demand my letter?”

  “Aye, but Your Grace instructed me to give it into Lord Leicester’s hands, and although the countess was angry, I left her and sought to reach the port before His Lordship sailed.”

  “But you failed,” Elizabeth interjected.

  “Aye, Majesty. He sailed early, loading men and horses immediately without rest,” Crowley said, his shoulders slumping.

  The queen’s eyes narrowed. “Stand up, Crowley.” She turned to Cecil. “My Lord Treasurer, will you help this man to a cup of wine? We can see he is near to falling down.”

  “Thank you, Your Grace,” the courier said, needing to clutch a stool to help him stand, though he still wavered on his feet. He gulped the wine quickly.

  “Get you to my kitchens, courier, and refresh yourself and thence to your bed,” the queen said, in a softer voice. “We will need you no more this day.”

  When the doors closed behind him, Elizabeth sat down on her high-backed chair near the fireplace, resting her chin on her hand. “Did you hear, Spirit,” Elizabeth said, her voice now soft as a whisper, “that She-Wolf plans to follow Rob?” She lifted her head. “We will not have it! If she goes, she will meddle in affairs to the ruin of our plans. Prepare a warrant forbidding her to travel.”

  Fearless after more than thirty years of service to her, Cecil approached, saying in his solemn voice, “Forgive me, gracious Majesty, but the people will surely wonder if a lawful wife is kept from her husband.”

  “Let them wonder!” she said, her voice rising, not yet ready to give up her deep, resentful anger for the woman who had taken Robin from her, though not often and not for long.

  As Cecil began to withdraw, the queen yelled, “Hold!”

  Cecil returned to her, his mouth relaxed by relief. “Yes, Majesty.”

  “You are wise, Spirit. Allow her to depart.” Elizabeth wasn’t finished and, with a half smile, added, “She is restricted to three baggage wagons, only four ladies and no coach. No coach, do you hear? That She-Wolf will not queen it on the Continent.”

  “It will be so ordered, Your Grace,” he said, bowing, his hand firmly on his walking stick to ease his gouty aches. He walked a few steps, then paused. “Majesty, please pardon my old legs for halting on your service.”

  She rose and went to him, putting her hand on his shoulder. “My Lord Burghley, you are close to us not for your bad legs but for your good head.”

  Burghley bowed where he stood and walked out of the chamber, his step firmer.

  Elizabeth called in her favorite lady-in-waiting, Anne Warwick, wife of Robin’s brother, Ambrose, the Earl of Warwick. “Anne, bring my best paper, blackest ink and fresh swan quills.”

  While waiting, she tore the undelivered summons into smaller and smaller pieces and tossed them into the fireplace.

  After her writing materials were brought, Elizabeth moved to her writing table and bent her head to the letter.

  Rob, we gave you leave to go, but you had no date certain. It grieves us to our heart that you felt free to depart so quickly without a final farewell.

  Elizabeth paused, taking in a deep breath before she dipped her quill again.

  We had a thought to speak to our brave soldiers before they sailed to do God’s good work for the Hollanders.

  But we do heartily acknowledge that your haste proceeded from no evil intent toward us, but from eagerness to do our will in this matter. Do not allow Others who follow you to do aught whatever to bring disgrace to you or to my authority.

  She had pressed her quill so hard, its point was dulled. She laid it aside for a fresh one with its feathers dyed green. Her Eyes’ remembered face rose before her, he always young and at her feet, and all her anger flowed from her heart as the ink from her pen formed the words that he would read. Would to God she could write all that was in her heart, the deep feelings of love that never changed.

  Remember our multiple cautions to our ÔÔ in this matter before you departed so hastily, especially to have good care in all that touches the subject we do esteem to be more greatly devoted toward us than ever subject was to prince. As you know, always the same,

  Elizabeth R.

  She called for a special courier for the letter, not wishing it to go through Cecil’s hands and be copied by a secretary for the official record. As queen, she had little privacy, was constantly surrounded by the court and her councilors, but by Christ’s wounds and bones, she’d have this much with Robin now.

  Privacy for them always had been something to snatch in moments, not hours. Although for a time, in that first year of her accession with Robin at her side, she had thought herself free of limits and criticism . . . a glorious few months, the best and most liberated she remembered of her life.

  CHAPTER 9

  THE FIRST MONTHS OF HER REIGN

  ELIZABETH

  September 1559

  Hampton Court Palace

  Elizabeth glanced over her shoulder and laughed, taunting Robin, spurring her horse, a swift hunter he had brought over from Ireland for her pleasure. She stirred a stiff breeze that lifted her gold-strand hair netting. It sailed behind her, landing on the knoll she’d just o’ertopped.

  Entering a small copse of old oaks, she pulled sharply on the reins and slid from the saddle, throwing herself on the soft, mossy earth, her legs tingling from gripping her hunter’s flanks. The horse trailed its reins and frothed at the bit. He needed a rest and so did she, though she’d never admit it. Glancing back, she saw Robin spear her golden hairnet, which he carried to her on his sword point, waving the net in the air like a tournament winner with his lady’s favor. Her stomach tightened, but not from a lack of breaking her fast that morn. Hers was a hunger of another sort and she steeled herself to resist it as she always must, while all the time seeking to satisfy it as far as she could.

  Robin reined in and jumped down, removing the net and sheathing his sword. He bowed. “Your golden net, Majesty, although I would rather my eyes saw your hair unbound, falling about you as it is now.” He knelt and leaned close, whispering, “You should never be enclosed in any part, Bess . . . except by me.”

  She laughed at his overconfidence, though his meaning was clear and sent quivering warmth through her belly.

  Overconfidence was part of his strength; her strength was to resist him no matter how much she wished to be o’ertaken by desire. She thought to give him so much, but no more, or risk the love of her people. He was married to that pale, sickly country wench and, though he was from a noble family, he had not enough rank for a queen’s husband. Oh, the entire idea of marriage to Robert Dudley was ridiculous, as her c
ouncilors repeatedly told her at every opportunity. In her own majesty, she agreed with them. There! Settled at last.

  But for how long?

  She extended her hand for Robin to kiss in reward for the net’s return, but he took her hand, holding it to his heart as she had feared. Hoped? Christ’s bones! All was churning confusion in her overheated breast.

  “Surely, Bess,” he said, lying beside her with only crackling leaves to separate them, his eyes glittering just inches from her face, always with a dark Gypsy brilliance, “I deserve greater reward for so valuable a rescue. I can always kiss your hand before the entire court, but”—he smiled and she caught her breath at his fiery gaze, sensing her will weakening—“I cannot always kiss your lovely lips as I would do now.”

  She glanced quickly behind him; then she forgot caution, forgot everything. The limbs and leaves swaying above them made intriguing patterns on his face and she thought him quite mysterious. One kiss only. They were quite alone for once, so why not allow herself what she wanted? A sweet kiss . . . like another of her favorite vanilla comfits? Only one show of affection that other women took without thought. Who could deny her? She was the queen!

  But she didn’t have to give him permission; her body moved of its own will toward his. He took her lips and she could feel his man’s flaring heat flowing through her, firing her need for him, a need that she could never completely allow, or completely escape. His hands went around her waist and she knew that he would have pulled her closer to him if the sounds of horn and hoofbeats had not been so near. He opened her mouth, his tongue touching hers. She moaned, her cheeks flaming as his lips moved down to brand her breasts where they arched out over her gown and riding doublet as if asking for his kiss.