His Last Letter

by Jeane Westin

  She looked deep into his eyes and he thought he saw her waver. “Hear me this one time, my long love. I would marry you, Robin, if I could marry anyone. But I cannot marry. I told you that long ago when I was but eight years old.”

  “I know, Bess. But you were in a shock when your cousin Queen Catherine Howard was beheaded. . . .”

  “But there was a worse shock before Catherine went to the Tower. I saw her running through the halls after my father, holding out her arms, screaming his name and he would not turn . . . or answer her. I hear her fearful terror in my sleep.”

  “She was an adulteress several times over.”

  “She was a frightened, silly girl who had been allowed too much freedom by her dim-witted Howard grandmother.”

  “The king, your father, had doted on her.”

  She looked pained by that memory. “Aye, his ‘rose without a thorn’ he called her, but he turned from her with such anger and her foolish head was struck off on Tower Green.”

  Robin drew back as if she’d slapped him. “Bess, you cannot think that I . . . if I were your husband would ever—”

  “Let us talk no more about it, Robin!” she said, her voice sharp. “It brings on my night terrors.”

  He knelt in silence, his head bowed, his heart emptied of sudden hope, as she obviously wished it to be. She whispered his name, her whisper so slight he could be dreaming it. “Robin, you would be the man I would marry . . . if I ever were to marry.”

  Hope burst suddenly into flame again. He bent to her and laid his hand on the beautiful hair lying on her shoulders . . . praise God, fully restored after the smallpox had almost taken it all—hair, beauty and life itself. All the royal doctors in their masks had claimed there was no hope, and to the horror of her councilors, she had named Robert protector of England, with fifty thousand pounds a year. He had refused to give her up and found a doctor who cured her. She recovered and he had sat by her bed for many days and nights. “Are you saying you will marry me someday, Bess?”

  “Oh, I do not know. . . . Yes, maybe.” She blinked rapidly and he thought it was to keep a tear from falling.

  “For now, cease plaguing me, Robin.” Her head turned first one way and then the other; then her next words burst from her. “No, I will not. When I die, it is my wish that my monument record, ‘Elizabeth, queen of England, reigning for such-and-such a time, did live and die a virgin.’”

  He did not answer; he had heard her say these words to the Parliament, although Parliament men could never believe her and Robert did not want to. He knew that her body yearned for him. He knew.

  “And now,” she said, rising, as did all her ladies instantly, as if catapulted from their chairs, “I will go to my bed, for I must find a way to deny the archduke of Austria’s proposal tomorrow.” She smiled slightly. “While leaving the door ajar. And, of course, you will support me at the council table.”

  He bowed, meaning to step away and leave, but she put out her arms and pulled him to her so that he felt the heat of her body through her velvet dressing gown and lacy gold shoulder netting. He closed his eyes and felt her lips on his, for just the briefest moment, and then she twisted from him toward her bed as he backed to her antechamber. He felt himself shaking and fought for control. What did Bess mean . . . yes, no and yes again?

  She was still a virgin, and yet she carried his kiss and her longing to her bed with the imprint of his body.

  Outside the royal apartments in the corridor lit by torches spaced along the walls, he damned himself in most bitter terms. Once, that first year of her reign, she had come to him and he could have had her in his bed, but he had thought of her first and not himself.

  He smashed one fist into the other. He would never make that mistake again, nor could he regret having once protected her in his bed. He laughed bitterly, the yeoman guards in the antechamber eyeing him curiously. He was as trapped by Elizabeth as the poor, hopeful Habsburg archduke. He, too, waited while she advanced and retreated, not able to commit to him, nor content to lose him completely.

  Robert struggled that night, turning from side to side, too heated to sleep, though trying to quiet his mind. Bess was ever likely to do the unexpected. That was the one thing he could be sure of. Would she change her mind about marrying him? Tomorrow? Come Michaelmas? Never? He tried to stop such thoughts, but they came without his bidding until he had Tamworth twice bring him beakers of cooled wine. Knowing he would suffer a large head on the morrow and not caring, he finally drifted to sleep.

  His bedside candle had burned very low and only a faint lantern light on a far wall lit his room when he was awakened by a woman’s body covering his.

  “Robin.” It was the voice he heard in his dreams. It was her perfume about him.

  “Bess! You’ve changed your mind.”

  “Yesss,” she said, and laid her head upon his chest, her soft hair all about him, blinding him.

  He was aroused as never before. She had not meant to dismiss him. It had been a game to control the whispers about them.

  “Bess . . . Bess,” he groaned her name.

  She raised her gown and grasped his cock, eagerly sliding herself onto him. He swelled at once, ready from years of waiting and wanting. He filled her and, pushing hard, moved rapidly until she was rising and falling over him like a troubled sea.

  As he suckled at her breast, he heard her moan and, looking up, saw her face clearly for a moment. Although it was Elizabeth’s gown and her Tudor hair, it was Lettice’s face looking down on him, her mouth slack, her eyes tightly closed.

  But he could not stop. Could not even try to stop. It was too much to ask of any man.

  And this woman, Lettice, was all the bed comfort that a man could ask.

  She buried her head in his chest to muffle her scream of pleasure. He could not move, done in by the woman and his own needs.

  “I love you, Robert.”

  For all her charms, he could not say the words she wanted to hear. Lettice must know that, or did any woman ever accept second best. Jesu! He was doing to her what Elizabeth did to him, giving her just enough to raise her hope of winning.

  Yet how could he wait, tortured by Bess his whole life? Near her every day, but spending his nights alone, lying in his own sweat. Never to have an heir. And never to be the master of a woman, but always the servant. Could any man be happy with such a life? Could the Earl of Leicester?

  Sometime after he fell asleep, Lettice departed, he hoped without being seen coming from his rooms. What possible reason could he give to Bess for such a night visit? In future, he must be very careful, but would Lettice? He had his choice of women in court, but she was most willing and unafraid. Did she want the queen to know? Was that her game? He knew she wanted a good marriage and he was a peer with estates and no heir. Nevertheless, he would be careful and tie on a sheath. He would not be trapped by this woman, no matter what he owed her.

  The queen could not condemn him to life without a man’s release, especially with a woman who was so like her. Such a temptation was beyond any man’s ability to resist.

  Eventually, there were no secrets from the queen, and would Lettice even want to keep theirs? She hated Elizabeth as only blood could hate blood. Had always hated her, for Bess had always what her cousin wanted. Besting the queen would be a triumph for Lettice, though the little fool, so full of her own womanhood, did not realize what a price she would pay.

  That summer Leicester spent in great suspense, waiting for Elizabeth to hear of his affair with her cousin, since half the court was eager for her to know, but all the court afraid to be the messenger.

  The decision was made for him, as it usually was, but this time by Lettice and not Elizabeth.

  “My lord,” Lettice whispered one night in his ear after coming to his bed, “I am with child. You must marry me. I would make you happy if you make me your wife.”

  “I cannot, Lettice. The queen would never allow me to leave her.” He bit back the other reason, which she would
laugh at: He still had not yet given up all hope of marrying Bess.

  Lettice’s answer was not carefully controlled, her voice rising until he feared the whole of Greenwich Castle would hear. “Robert, you mean you will not risk the queen’s anger.”

  “Lettice, quiet yourself. I will think of something.”

  “You will think of a way to rid yourself of blame for this child I carry. The queen has everything and I have nothing, now less than nothing.” Her voice caught on a sob. “Mark you, Robert, someday you will regret it.”

  He tried to comfort her, but he could not give her what she wanted. She refused to be calmed and fled his room in great anger, almost as immense as her Tudor cousin’s. He would have to do something quickly. He did not think Lettice would tell the queen herself. It would mean the Tower for them both, and no chance for a notable marriage for her, or for him. She carried a lifetime of jealousy within her breast, but she was not rash . . . he hoped.

  The next morning, Leicester strolled with Elizabeth in her walled garden, the ladies, including Lettice, who walked out with the queen gathering at one end. He picked flowers and adorned the queen’s dress and hair until she could have been mistaken for a forest sprite.

  “Robin,” she said, laughing like a girl, “you weigh me down.”

  “Never, Bess. I only ornament you as God would have, had he thought ahead.”

  “Robin,” she said, pretending shock, “you come much too close to blasphemy.”

  He put his hands in a prayerful position and she grabbed them, pulling them apart and placing them on her cheeks. “You are in a very cheerful mood this day. Still, I do not expect you to be my fool and entertain me.”

  “I will always be your fool, Bess,” he said, knowing he spoke truth as he looked up into her eyes, his heart beating fast against his doublet.

  Pup! Pup! She made the sound with her lips that showed some irritation.

  Did she suspect? Did she know?

  He plunged forward, having no other choice. “Speaking of fools, I beg you to find a husband for your cousin Lettice Knollys.”

  She eyed him narrowly. “Has she been a fool, Robin?”

  Her face was more aware than he liked, but he had to be bold, or be trapped once more. “Nay, my only queen, but she is ripe for the marriage bed and not prudent.”

  She strolled down one gravel path in the geometric garden centered by a fountain with a statue of Poseidon atop it. She turned toward him at the far wall espaliered with Spanish orange trees. “Do you have a husband in mind, Robin?”

  Her voice was soft, her face unknowable.

  Robert kept his own features from appearing too innocent, too easy for Bess to read. “That is for you, Majesty, to decide, but I think Walter Devereux, the Earl of Essex, looks on her with favor.”

  “Do you think it?”

  “I do.”

  She walked on and he caught up to her at the center fountain, offering his arm. Bess took it, holding tight to him. He relaxed. She might suspect, but he was certain she did not know. Or did not want to know. Elizabeth had the ability to accept or reject what she wanted to know according to her own needs.

  Robert gave the Earl of Essex and his bride a handsome wedding gift of gold plate. The queen gave them the manor of Chartley near his own Kenilworth, but far enough away to keep them from chance meetings.

  Breathing deeply with relief as Essex and Lettice drove away, the Earl of Leicester attended Elizabeth in her apartments that evening as he always did and was met by her fury, a precious vase thrown with queenly precision from across the room.

  “Never think me brainless, my lord.” Her irate voice filled her chambers.

  He fell to his knees, shocked and speechless, not comprehending immediately what had angered Elizabeth.

  “Majesty, I—I am . . .” Not knowing how to answer, he heard his voice trail away like that of some cringing lad who had thought himself more clever than he was.

  She stood above him, her face so wrathful he could not immediately regain his usual poise, the ability to look her in the eyes and not blink.

  “I rid you of your whore. Shouldn’t you humble yourself in thanks?”

  She knew. “And you also rid yourself of your hated cousin,” he dared to say, regaining at last the pride that had deserted him when he had needed it most.

  “We did not give you leave to rise, my lord,” she said, her words spit in his face. “Down, we say, if you would serve us longer!”

  “I would serve you with my death, if you desire it, but not my manhood. You cannot keep me a monk in a cloister, refusing to marry me while retaining me as a pet . . . and making me run mad in my need for you.” He felt the fury of his guilt and anger and desire, the years of frustrated waiting, rage through him. Enough! He had had enough of crawling before her. He walked away through her antechamber.

  She screamed after him, “You are banished from our court, my lord earl.”

  “As you see, Majesty, I am banishing myself.”

  “And do not return!”

  “As you will, my queen,” he said, leaving Bess and her shocked ladies gasping.

  Immediately, he rode with his household retainers to Leicester House on the Strand in London. She sent no rider after him, as he’d expected she would, and his heart was heavy as granite as he walked through his empty and echoing rooms.

  It was a week before she came, but only two days after he had taken to his bed with a recurring fever.

  “Robin—Robin,” she said, rushing into his bedchamber. “I am here.”

  “Bess, my love,” he whispered hoarsely, speaking truth, “I was praying you would come to heal me.”

  “Always . . . always, Robin.” She stroked his fevered forehead, a tear falling on his lips.

  He captured it with his tongue, knowing it would make him well . . . for a time.

  Late Summer 1566

  It began as an adventure during the queen’s annual summer progress. Leicester saw that Elizabeth had tired of the pageants, speeches, dinners, honors for local knights and magistrates and gifts requiring more speeches at each village along their route, the largest one at Cornbury, where they stopped for a few days to rest and take the curative waters.

  On their second evening at the spa, they sat in one of the cool shaded alleys, the queen’s ladies at some distance, watching some village dancers.

  Robin knelt before the queen on a Turkish rug where her feet rested. There was mischief in her eyes, a reckless spirit he had not seen often since the first years of her reign, when her sense of freedom and her constant affection had given him such great hope that she would marry him.

  “Sweet Robin,” she said in a hushed voice, “come closer.”

  “Majesty, I am at your feet. If I come closer, I must touch you and there would be talk.”

  “Let them talk! Is a queen never to know the least affection that her subjects know? There are times when I would be a simple woman with a man she—”

  “She what . . . Majesty?” His heart had begun to pound loud enough to be heard by everyone near.

  Elizabeth raised her hand as if to dismiss him, but allowed it to drop with no signal.

  Still on one knee, Robin bent forward until his doublet touched her satin gown. “Bess,” he whispered, “would you have the courage for an adventure this night?”

  She frowned. “I have courage enough for anything at any time.”

  “Then when it is full dark, meet me in the woods behind the hot springs. We can ride to my nearby lodge at Rycote for a midnight supper.”

  He waited while yes and no flickered across her face, not once, but several times. He raised her hand to kiss, stood and stepped back to bow and leave her.

  He waited in the woods well past moonrise, leading his horse back and forth to quiet him and make the time run faster. It was close to ten of the clock before he saw a cloaked woman running from tree to tree. Almost at once, he knew it was Bess, thinking to disguise herself, as if she could. Who could miss that
erect, slender figure of above normal height, her gold-red hair glowing in the moonlight?

  She ran up, a little breathless. “Where is my horse?”

  “The path is rough and winding, Majesty.”

  “All night paths hold their dangers.”

  “For your safety, you will ride with me and I will hold you,” he said, trying to keep the excitement from his voice.

  “My lord, I can keep to the saddle on any horse. You take a great liberty.”

  It was time for boldness. Without asking, he lifted her into his saddle and mounted behind her. “But not, I think, madam, a completely unexpected liberty.”

  She laughed, her desire for adventure already crowding in.

  He took up the reins and kicked his horse into a canter, turning its head onto the path to his lodge. His arms were about her and she rested her head against his chest.

  After a time, she shouted into his ear, “Robin, I will eat your supper with good appetite. Expect no more.”

  He knew that she had now had time to regret her rash acceptance of this adventure, but not enough time to stop herself completely, nor would she now.

  Tamworth met them at the lodge door, holding up a lantern, bowing low to his queen, though she swept past him without acknowledgment. Robert smiled. She would pretend that she was not here. Only Elizabeth could command her mind and memory as she desired them to be.

  A supper of steaming brawn broth, a pigeon pie and a custard with a pitcher of ale was already spread upon the table in the great hall before a fire hot enough to erase the night’s chill.

  Savory aromas rose from the broth and meat pie, but Robert’s senses knew only Elizabeth’s special delicate perfume. Dismissing Tamworth, Robert served her himself, kneeling before her and bowing his head as if all the court looked on.

  “Robin, if this is a mockery . . .”

  He raised his eyes, fearing they might be moist. “Bess, why would I mock my heart’s only desire?”

  She bit down on her lip. “I know well the devious ways of men.”

  “But not of sincere men, a man who has loved you since a boy.”