by Jeane Westin
Giddy in her head, she was like any young servant girl running through the dark of night to the stables to meet a waiting handsome horse groom.
To quiet her breathing, she covered her mouth with a hand and leaned against the dusty wall. It’s not too late to turn back! She stopped and then was pulled forward. It is too late.
She edged on toward a door at the end of the short passage. A key hung on the wall. She touched its hard brass surface, knowing that she touched the key in the same place as Henry VIII, erasing her father’s fingerprints with her own. The key made no sound in the lock, which opened at her touch after all the years unused. Certainly her pious sister, Mary, and her even more pious younger brother, Edward, had never made use of secret lovers. Had Robin oiled the lock for just such a visit? Was he that man-sure of her?
She listened for voices until she heard Tamworth, Robin’s servant, say, “God give you good rest, my lord.” A door closed.
She held her breath as she stepped across the lintel and beyond the covering tapestry, embraced by the warmth of a log fire lighting the high-waxed walls of Robin’s paneled room. He sat in his bed, the bed curtains open, his dark head propped on white bolsters, staring at her with a small smile on his lips. It could be welcoming or assured. She did not care.
“Bess,” he said, his drowsy voice deep and soft, “I’ve waited every night for that door to open . . . to see you standing there.” He did not move from his bed. The churl expected her to come to him!
“I’m here to warn you, Robin . . . and for nothing else.”
“Of course, Your Grace. I expect nothing . . . else.” He threw back a satin coverlet and swung his legs from bed and she saw a long expanse of them from under his nightshirt, the finely muscled calves . . . and thighs of a horseman. He quickly donned a long black velvet robe without seeming to notice her attention and, offering her his hand, led her to the best chair of the two placed in front of the fire. “Majesty,” he said after she was seated, “may I call for wine?”
“No,” she said, and then fell silent.
He seated himself across from her and stared, very relaxed, his large, dark eyes glinting in the firelight.
“Robin,” she said, “I am come on a grave matter.” I must keep a distance.
“I can see that.” He cocked his head. “You’ve decided to send me to the Tower. Should I have Tamworth pack a change of clothes and my second-best nightshirt?”
“This is no cause for jest,” she said, wanting to scream at him, and yet her legs trembled as if she stood in freezing water.
He rose. “I can see that, too,” he said softly. He took one step and was on his knees, lifting her slippered feet and kissing them, first one, then the other.
Elizabeth’s hands clenched in her lap and she tensed her body to flee, but he raised eyes that held her. His eyes. Her ÔÔ. “Listen to me, Robin.” She bent to his ear as if his door could hear, for far too many doors in her palaces had ears to them. She repeated what Kat had told her, her lips against his ear. A tremor raced through her.
He seemed to be unaffected by her whispering. How many women must have whispered entreaties into those ears?
“Bess, are you saying many in the court are speaking thus of me . . . that I would kill poor Amy?” He shook his head violently and leaped to his feet. “It is true that my marriage is no love match, not as I have come to know and want love.”
She tried to ignore his meaning, although she stored it away to repeat to herself and savor later. “Robin, you know they would say anything of you, accuse you, kill you. It was always thus in every court for the favorite.”
He returned to the back of her chair and put his hands gently on her shoulders, kneading. “Am I your favorite, my queen?”
She would have twisted to face him, but he held her. “Robin, you know—”
“But, Bess, I do not know. . . . I have every day signs of your favor. In every way it is shown . . . except for one. You have never said you would marry me if I were as free in law as I am in heart.” His low voice enveloped her as a warm blanket on a chill night.
Her face flamed as his hands moved up to her neck, gentle, barely touching her. Then his touch wasn’t there and she leaped to her feet, fearing that he had gone. But he was there and advancing around her chair. “Robin,” she said, trying to bring authority to her voice, but his name left her mouth as a caress.
He enfolded her in his arms and kissed her as he had before, but never so deeply, never with his whole body as now, not since their youth. She returned his kiss, the second of her day, and two kisses more than she could bear. She took in a deep, shuddering breath. “We must not, my love. I cannot forget who I am.”
“Nor can I . . . my wonderful girl, my Bess, my beautiful queen.” He lifted her from her feet and carried her to his bed.
She moaned, her body’s heat rising. “No, Robin. No. I cannot. . . .” But she did not want to stop his next kiss, though the all-consuming warmth that spread everywhere in her body warned her that she must stop soon . . . but not quite yet.
His bed . . . his bolsters had his scent everywhere. She was drowning in the sweet oil of musk and civet he used for his hair. “Robin, we must remember that you cannot get a child on me. . . . We must . . .”
He pressed himself to her and she felt him to be fully aroused. “Bess, I will take care. There are many paths to pleasure.”
His hand stole to her breast and he pressed it through her robe. She wanted to command that cloth to be gone. She ached for him to touch her everywhere, to kiss her everywhere. But just as she felt herself lost to all reason and found by deep surrender, he sat up on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands. As she reached for him to pull him back, he stood and extended his hand. “I forgot myself—and I forgot who you are. Yet I do see that this is inevitable between us. We are flesh and hot blood and young, Bess. . . .”
“My lord,” she said, gathering her senses, which had betrayed her body as they never had before. “I will remember this night and how you had a great care for me.”
“Will you?”
“I will never forget, my heart.”
He held her hand, smiled and bowed, his dark eyes sad, though his breathing was labored. “To calm your worry, Bess, I will post extra guards about Amy’s house and let it be known that I have done so. Not one of my enemies will try to entrap me with her death, lest his minion be caught and the truth racked out of him.”
He laughed as she stepped toward the secret door.
“What amuses you so?” She was unexpectedly angry, though she realized anger was a substitute for what she had denied herself.
Robin shrugged, though he looked pained. “Amy’s murder would be useless. She is ill unto death, Bess, with a growth in her breast.”
“Oh. I knew she was sickly—”
“I have consulted doctors and they tell me there is nothing they can do but increase the laudanum physick. She has not above a year to live . . . or less.”
“Oh, Robin. I am . . .”
“I will not pretend, Bess. It is you I want. When I am free, will you marry me?”
“Yes,” she breathed, hardly believing she had said it as she opened the secret door and stepped through. “I’m sorry for her, Robin.” And for myself, she thought. This is a complication that I cannot will away. She slowly closed the door, her eyes upon him until he was not there.
She turned the key in the lock, vowing never to use it again or to be so forgetful of her own majesty. I must try harder.
Elizabeth stumbled toward the faint candlelight coming through from the linen closet. Hastily, she replaced the latch in the cabinet and unlocked her chamber doors. Slipping into her bed, she turned on her side to face the windows sending moonlight in diamond patterns to her bedcovers. She pulled the satin coverlet to her chin and drew her knees high against her chest. Her bolster smelled of rosemary, a sure defense against the plague.
But plague take it! She had no mastery over her own desires . . . as she m
ust! Robin had kept her safe this night, when her own virgin will had faltered. He had always had a care for her before himself. Tomorrow, she would make him constable of Windsor Castle and keeper of the Great Park. And . . . why not? . . . knight of the Order of the Garter. Then in a year or so, she would grant him an earldom, give him rank enough for a queen. Robin would be appeased and happy.
But would Elizabeth Tudor marry him? She caught her breath before it became a sob, but such bottomless tears would have their way, and they fell onto the embroidered flowers beneath her head. “My heart,” she whispered, “more than this can never be between us.” She said it again and again to plant it firmly in her mind. Tomorrow, Robin would come and she must deny her promise, swear that he had dreamed it.
Elizabeth lay awake all the long night, her words echoing about her chamber and back again to taunt her, until the starlight ceased.
CHAPTER 10
TO MARRY THE WRONG QUEEN
ELIZABETH
Summer 1564
Hampton Court
Through the open doors of her antechamber, Elizabeth saw Robin brush past the hesitant guards at the royal apartments and stride boldly into her privy chamber. I will give him what he wants; I will make him a king.
She pressed her palms against her gown, readying herself for his outburst that she would have to punish. He did not kneel or remove his cap, unpardonable manners even for the newly made Earl of Leicester. Does he not know that I am tearing out my own heart with this demand I make on our love . . . on his loyalty?
Cecil and the Earl of Sussex, who had been studying warrants with her, both stood up from their chairs at the table, uncertain whether to stay or excuse themselves.
Elizabeth saw that they hesitated to challenge Rob, although both men had recently challenged him at the council table when his conduct was too outrageous even for the favorite. Yet now she knew they asked themselves: What wise man wishes to come between two quarreling lovers when the chance of being right is less than betting on a dice throw? Challenging him was up to her.
“What means this intrusion, my lord?” She kept her voice half-amused, though she allowed a warning undertone of temper.
“Majesty, you know well my reason,” he said in a choking voice.
Elizabeth waved her two councilors toward the door, since they were edging there in any case.
“I warn you, my lord, this behavior is unpardonable—”
“My behavior?” Suddenly, he knelt, looking up at her, his Gypsy eyes and dark face clouded with pain. “Bess, how could you do this to me . . . to us?”
Elizabeth strode about and stopped behind him, unable to face him and in no doubt of what troubled him, knowing she must keep her own pain from her voice and her face. “Oh, yes, a terrible thing to make you a king, my lord! Offer you the queen of Scotland to wife. They say she is as tall as you and somewhat beautiful. Is this the honor that distresses you so?” She must keep her face lively, and empty her eyes so that he could not see into her torn heart.
Robin twisted about and then, obviously realizing he was groveling on the floor, he leaped to his feet and faced her, his hands on his waist as if in a vain effort to hold himself together, though she could see his fingers trembled.
She widened her eyes in feigned amazement. “Robin, I had no notion that men were so fickle. You have urged me to marry you since before you became wifeless. You have longed to be a king, my lord . . . and now I make you one. But do you kneel in gratitude?” She attempted a raucous laugh, but it sounded strangled to her own ears.
Leicester’s words were choked past a full throat. “You mock me, Bess. I beg you, stop this charade. You know I want no queen but you in my bed, no woman but you.”
She hardened her face so that he would not see that she treasured these words even as she was forced to reject them. “Yet it cannot be this queen, Robin, as well you know. So for the love I bear you, I will give you another queen.” She paced away from him, her Gypsy, knowing she could not look at him and say what she must. “Listen well to me, Robin. Mary Stuart is half-French, once queen of France. The French want to send their troops to stand upon my border, to raise the clans, ever ready to fight England, to foment rebellion in my own north counties. She must marry someone whom I can trust. Mary cannot be without a husband, since she cannot control her lords, or marry one that means us ill.”
Elizabeth raised her hands in resignation and let them drop. “Robin, I would finally know that peace would ever reign on my northern border. You are the only man in my realm I would trust to give this to me.”
“But at the sacrifice of my heart!”
Did he think she didn’t sacrifice her own heart? Every time she must be a queen and demand he take this other woman, this northern queen, into his arms and give her love and children, it was a misery beyond miseries for her. Still, she was anointed by God to reign for England’s good and must keep to her purpose, though her heart was shredded into tiny pieces. She steeled herself to show anger.
“You dare not refuse your queen, my lord! Do you think England would ever know true peace if Mary wed a Catholic prince of Spain or France with their armies at her command?” She came close and tapped his chest with her finger. “And don’t tell me that you do not see the great benefit I bestow on you.”
She could see him gaining self-control.
“I do see it, Majesty, and I would ease your mind in this matter if I could. Yet my heart overrules my mind, as you see . . . though yours does not.”
Elizabeth heard the pain in those words, but neither could nor would ease him.
Robin stood tall, his chest thrust out, the jewels on his doublet glittering as if stars had fallen out of the heavens to decorate him. But his voice was bitter. “Is that why you made me the Earl of Leicester . . . ? I hoped it was for yourself.” He came close to her, took her hand and kissed it with the same passion as he had kissed her mouth in his bed and in other secluded places. “Bess, I love only you. I want only you.”
Elizabeth longed to draw his head to her breasts, to feel his breath of life upon them, but she forced herself to keep her eyes hard, calling on all her resistance to him, of which she realized she had too little at this moment. “You will love another and want another, if I command it,” she said, keeping her confident mood although her own words made her want to shout, No, never!
“Come, sweet Robin, you are a man born. Do you think I do not see the way you look on the ladies of the court and they look on you?”
“They mean nothing to me, Bess.”
“Only so long as I am watching, but if I weren’t . . .” The thought of how many coverlets would be pulled back for him, perhaps had been lifted, raised welcome anger she needed to resist her longing for him as if he were already gone from her. Now her voice was heated. “You will do as I say, my lord. You are my servant to use in any way I deem necessary for my good and the safety of my realm.” When she saw no yielding on his face, she called on the heartlessness of her father, King Henry VIII. “Robin, you are not master here. Have a care, my lord, lest you find yourself in the Tower and this time without the love of Elizabeth.”
Leicester said nothing, but his bold stare showed his unwavering defiance. He bowed and rushed past her and out her antechamber doors.
She shouted after him, leaving her yeomen guards and ladies of the bedchamber no safe place to look but, by turns, the floor and the ceiling. “By God’s wounds, my lord Leicester,” she shouted after him, “you will do as I give command!”
When Elizabeth called him to her that evening, she learned that he had left the court for his manor of Kenilworth, a rich manor she had given him with his earldom. Ungrateful wretch! Judas!
She flung cushions and everything easily at hand and of not too great value about her privy chamber, sending her ladies scurrying out of reach, but not before she ordered in a fury of frustration and, the worst wrath of all, regret: “Send a courier in all haste at once with six armed men to intercept my lord Leicester on the no
rth road and bring him back to us. And in chains if he offers resistance!”
Her guards brought him in to her the next morning, dusty, disheveled, his face ashen with want of sleep and yet stubborn, his dark eyes haughty, his face unyielding.
Elizabeth smiled at him and he knelt. She couldn’t help smiling. He looked as sullen as a schoolboy caught out in some great mischief and trying to brave it before the schoolmaster.
“Robin, Robin,” she said softly. She went to him, raised him up with her own hands and, taking his face, cradled it against her breast. Her ladies quietly crept from her privy chamber, every one blushing.
“Bess,” he whispered, “how do you think I can bear to be without you in the cold north?”
“Isn’t a throne worth some bad weather? And you will have a queen to warm your bed.” She swallowed the hurt of those words, using the last of her will to drive him to Mary Stuart.
“Bess, a throne is worth nothing if you are not beside me; my bed is cold if you are not next to me.”
“You sound like a poet, Robin, and not a very truthful one.”
“No poet, Bess.”
“What, then?” She knew his answer, or hoped she did.
“I’m a man . . . just a man, who loves a woman more than life.”
“But not just a woman.” She did not like to taunt him further, but each time she did, he protested his love for her, and that she did need in the deepest part of her heart. Had her father made it impossible for her to truly believe in a man’s love?
She began to pace her privy chamber to find her answer in motion. Did he think this decision she made was not wrenching for her? Did she even know her own mind? Her duty pulled her one way, her heart the opposite. It was the worst of tortures; she was racking herself harder than a traitor in the Tower dungeons. How could she live without Robin by her side? An awful truth stiffened her resolve. This would not be the last time she would be called upon to sacrifice what she most desired for her throne; neither could she be seen to have a subject win his way over her before her court, or henceforth they would bow down to him. She must be always dominant. Always queen.
