by Jean Plaidy
“My mother knows full well that Your Majesty is the cleanest lady in the land, and she was determined that no flea should sup your royal blood at Chartley.”
That amused me. They were bright, these Devereux children. They took after their mother, I supposed—and certainly not after Walter. Walter was a fool. There was no gainsaying it. It was a mistake to have sent him to Ireland. Cecil had said there was no hope of succeeding in Ireland. It was like trying to fill a bottomless pit. However much was poured into it, it would disappear. The reason was that the Irish were a people given to quarreling, so that if they were met on any point that would simply raise another. It was the quarrel itself which they sought—not the solution; so if one trouble was solved they lost no time in finding another.
I was beginning to believe that Cecil was right and governing Ireland was a thankless task; that was why it was best to send such as Devereux out there. The place abounded with traitors and dull as he was, Devereux could be trusted. He had, however, made some terrible mistakes. He had invited some of the chieftains to a banquet on one occasion and in the middle of the feast soldiers had entered the hall, seized the chiefs and murdered their attendants. There was no justification for this and Devereux's excuse had been that he had broken the faction which was working against him and made them all afraid of him.
There was no alternative after that incident but to recall him from Ireland.
He came to see me, full of excuses. I gave him credit for his loyalty; on the other hand he was no brilliant statesman. I was certain that Lettice must find him dull company.
Let her contend with his dullness. She had married him and he was the father of those four enchanting children.
I said to him: “There has been no happy result from the Irish question, but I daresay that is no easy matter to settle. You need a rest. I'll swear you are longing to be with your beautiful wife and children. I was at Chartley recently and I found the place delightful. Make sure there are no black cows born on your land, Lord Essex.”
He was gratified by my interest and I could not help comparing him with Robert who was present at the meeting. How splendid he looked in that dark red velvet, a color becoming to his handsome dark looks! I liked the new Italian-style doublet with the long peak in front. It was set with rubies, and there was a white feather in his red velvet hat, and his loose traveling coat was of the same rich-colored material. What a fine figure of a man! And how insignificant Walter Devereux looked beside him!
Walter thanked me and said he would be glad to return to his family for a while, until I found some task for him which he trusted would be ere long as his one wish was to serve me.
I laughed to think of Lettice receiving him. I was sure she would be somewhat nonplussed. There were a great many rumors about her and a love affair she was having with a certain nobleman. Nobody mentioned the name of the nobleman in my presence, so I knew it was Robert.
I shrugged my shoulders. As long as he and Madame Lettice realized that he could be with her only when I did not wish him to be with me, I would accept what was going on. In fact I would enjoy showing Lettice that Robert was only at her service if I did not need him.
I became more and more certain of this when one of Robert's men brought up the suggestion that Essex should be sent back to Ireland.
I was amused. Get him out of the way again, I supposed. Leave the coast clear for Lettice and Robert.
Cecil, however, thought it might be a good idea for Essex to go back. He was loyal; he was not very bright, of course, but if he were given clear instructions he would not be a man to go against them.
As a result it was decided that Essex should indeed return with increased authority and to stress this he was given the title of Earl Marshal of Ireland.
He left in July. That was a year after our visit to Kenilworth. By September he was dead. He had died of a virulent attack of dysentery.
I felt a quivering of alarm. Dysentery was a disease suffered by many, which often proved fatal. Whenever it occurred there were suggestions of poisoning. Thus the sudden death of a man of thirty-five, who had been in excellent health when he left England, coupled with the recent scandals about his wife, gave rise to fresh rumors.
It was reported that a black cow had been born on the Chartley estate. Whether it was true or not I did not know; but there was a great deal of speculation.
Henry Sidney came to me and said that in view of the suddenness of Essex's death there should be an autopsy. I agreed but I must say I was terrified of what might be found and whom it might involve. Robert had been on the perimeter of too many mysteries: Amy Robsart, Lord Sheffield and now Walter Devereux.
I heard that Walter had died bravely, although he had suffered intense pain. He had written to me in his extreme agony and begged me to favor his eldest son. He also wrote along the same lines to Cecil.
I was very relieved when the post-mortem revealed that there was no trace of poison in him. I wished that I could stop thinking that there were some poisons which left no trace, and that Robert's own physician, Dr Julio, was an Italian who had a masterly knowledge as to the effects certain concoctions could have on the body.
However, the case was closed. Walter Devereux was dead and that little boy, Robert, who had made such an impression on me at Chartley, had become the Earl of Essex.
MY POOR BURGHLEY RAN INTO A LITTLE FAMILY TROUBLE at this time. He had been rather flattered, I think, when Edward de Vere had married his daughter. It had seemed such a grand match. But Edward de Vere was a young man of very uncertain temperament and that he had too high an opinion of himself I had always known. He had been a favorite of mine—not the highest rank, but quite near it, for he was very handsome and such a good dancer; and he amused me. I had been delighted for him to marry Burghley's daughter, for I never ceased to be grateful and to appreciate the worth of my dear Spirit.
I sometimes believed, as I have mentioned before, that Oxford married Anne Cecil because he thought it would help to free his first cousin Norfolk, who was under sentence of death for his part in the Ridolfi plot, and when he did not succeed he was furious and vowed vengeance on Burghley.
Anne Cecil was giving birth while Oxford was abroad and out of revenge on Burghley, Oxford questioned his own paternity which was a great blow, not only to Anne, who was quite innocent, poor girl—but to my virtuous and strict-living Protestant Spirit.
Anne was heartbroken, Burghley was bewildered and he came to me at once to tell me the whole story. I tried to comfort him. Oxford was a wild and unpredictable young man, I told him.
When Oxford came back from his foreign travels, he presented himself to me. He had brought me some wonderful presents and these were all permeated with a delicious scent. There were elegant leather gloves which I found most acceptable and I said he must discover the name of the perfume, the like of which I had never smelt before, for I would have more of it. This he vowed to do and he was so charming in his manners that I could not believe he was really circulating lies about Burghley's daughter.
When I mentioned to him my displeasure in this he turned white with anger and told me that he would not take his wife back, nor would he own the child she had borne. I replied that to my knowledge Anne Cecil was a virtuous girl and I did not care for my good Burghley to be so disturbed as he was over this matter, and I insisted that Oxford should immediately reveal what evidence he had for making these accusations.
He replied that he would not blazon it forth until it pleased him to do so. As for the trouble the matter was causing Burghley, he preferred his own content to that of others.
I said: “I know that well.” And I tried to dismiss the matter from my mind.
I disliked trouble between those who were dear to me and although Oxford did not have the place in my affections that Burghley did, I was sorry that there should be this trouble.
Anne Cecil had gone back to her father and Burghley found a great deal of pleasure in his grandchild.
Anne did after
a little while go back to Oxford, and there were three more children. I used to hear of them from Burghley who took the little ones into his household, Oxford having no talent for parenthood but Burghley being a family man. I liked to hear him tell me anecdotes of his grandchildren and at least some joy had come to him through his daughter's marriage to the unreliable Oxford.
The days were passing so quickly that I was scarcely aware of their going. Another week, another month, and there I was a year older. From the time I rose to the time I retired I did not seem to have a moment alone. My life was a round of ceremony. Even getting dressed I was surrounded by women, and there was the ordeal of lacing and getting into those whalebone busks which accentuated the smallness of my waist. There was the ruff to be chosen, and not even my wardrobe women could tell how many dresses I had. I must look magnificent before I faced my courtiers and only twice in the whole of my life as the Queen was I seen by a man before I was fully dressed. The first time was on a May morning at Hampton Court where I happened to be looking out of my window because it was such a beautiful morning. I was in my nightcap and loose gown and young Geoffrey Talbot, Shrewsbury's son, happened to be walking below my window and looked straight up at me.
I stepped back in embarrassment and immediately took up a hand mirror. I was forty-five and well preserved; courtiers swore they believed I had the secret of eternal youth and looked like a girl of eighteen; they lied of course but I do believe I looked ten years younger than I was. My skin was as white as it had ever been and as smooth—it should be. It was well looked after. My eyes had lost none of their brightness, and because I was a little short-sighted they had a soft look, although when I was talking to people I would study them so intently that I appeared to be looking straight into their minds, which disconcerted them a little. However I was not pleased to be seen by young Talbot who bowed low and hurried away. I did not feel I could allow the matter to pass and when I next saw him—it was before dinner of the same day—I gave him a fillip across the forehead and I told the company that he had seen me before I was fully dressed that morning and I was ashamed to have been so seen. Of course Talbot said that he had been so blinded by my beauty that I had disappeared before he had had time to recover himself. All the same, I was put out wondering what he had really thought.
The only other time was quite disastrous. But more of that later.
There was no lack of devotion from my courtiers in spite of the fact that I was fast moving out of the stage when I could expect compliments, but perhaps because of it they were more fulsome and more frequent than ever. I loved my men—and I think some of them had a genuine affection for me. I was sure Hatton and Heneage did; and as for Robert there was a special relationship between us which nothing could alter. Men like Oxford never cared for anyone but themselves; and such as Philip Sidney were too inherently honest to be able to play the part of an admirer. I respected Philip for it but while I liked to have him at the Court—in any case I owed it to his mother and he was a favorite of his Uncle Robert's—he could never be in my immediate circle. Hatton was my Old Mutton or Bellwether. He was also My Lids. Robert was of course My Eyes—the most precious thing I had, and I always said he was continually looking out for my good. Burghley was in a different category; he was My Spirit; and Francis Walsingham, because of his dark looks, was affectionately known as My Moor.
Lettice Knollys was back at Court. I liked to keep an eye on her. I commented that she must be mourning her husband and feeling his loss sadly.
“Oh yes, Your Majesty,” she said, lowering her eyes.
I thought: Sly creature! Is she up to some mischief, and with whom? Her attitude of mourning was not very sincere. She did not look like a sorrowing widow to me.
I said: “You must have been deeply saddened when you heard of Walter's death. It was so sudden…so unexpected. Poor Essex! He was not an old man, and he had so much to live for. I am glad it was discovered that his death was a natural one. That must have been a trying time for you. To lose a husband through God's will is disastrous enough, but if it should be by man's foul play that would be very hard to bear.”
“Walter was a quiet man, Your Majesty. He had no real enemies.”
“And not one to wish him out of the way?”
She lifted those beautiful dark eyes to my face with the utmost candor. “Oh no, Your Majesty.”
She was one of two women whom I found it hard to get out of my mind. The other was Mary, Queen of Scotland. I imagined, although I had never seen Mary, that she had a quality similar to that of Lettice. It was an overriding attraction which I think most men found irresistible. They are of a wanton nature, I thought angrily, both of them! They want men as much as men want them. It is not superior beauty or skill… except perhaps in lewd conduct. But it is there in Lettice Knollys as it must be in Mary of Scots.
And in view of the rumors which had reached me about Lettice and Robert, I was particularly suspicious of her. What was happening between Lettice and Robert would be kept from me by those around me and the fact that some hints had filtered through told me there must be a great deal of it.
New Year came—always an enjoyable time of giving and receiving. My courtiers, of course, brought me the richest gifts—jewelery and garments, but I also had more humble presents from my household servants. For instance from Mistress Twist, the Court laundress, I had three handkerchiefs of black Spanish work edged with gold—all worked by her; and in addition she brought me four tooth cloths of rough holland wrought with black silk and edged with fine netting delicately worked with many colored silks. From Mrs Montague, my silk woman, I had a pair of sleeves decorated with roses and buds in black silk.
Philip Sidney brought me a cambric smock decorated with black silk work and edged with bone lace of gold and silver; it was covered with real gold spangles—a most delightful and acceptable gift. From my physicians I had pots of ginger and other preserves, and one of the cooks made a marchpane in the shape of St George and the dragon.
I had given Robert a doublet of white satin fastened with clasps of diamonds in which he looked very splendid. My favorite gift was of course his, not only because it was the most magnificent but because he had given it. That year it was a magnificent necklace of diamonds, opals and rubies. I wore it constantly.
Lettice brought me two wigs—one black and one red to match my own hair.
When I tried on the black one she stood back looking at me, her hands clasped together, all prepared to make the flattering comment.
I said to her: “I hear disturbing news about Lady Sheffield. I wonder what is the cause of her ailment. Do you know?”
“No, Your Majesty.” The beautiful eyes were wide and her face a study of innocence. “I doubt not the doctors will have an answer.”
“It is one of those mysterious illnesses which affect some,” I went on. “They tell me that her hair is falling out and her nails dropping off.”
Lettice shivered.
“No one can say what the cause of that is. And you know how ready people are to talk when others are beset by these illnesses. They begin to look around for reasons.”
“Reasons, Your Majesty?”
“Well, it is possible that our meek little Douglass is being a nuisance to someone.”
“She seemed a very mild gentle creature when I met her. Our encounter was brief certainly.”
“I remember rumors about her at Kenilworth. Rumors about her … and one other.”
In spite of her attempt at calm she was shaken. My suspicions that an affair was still simmering between her and Robert were heightened.
“I hope that Lady Sheffield recovers,” I said. “There was that delightful little boy she had. He reminded me in a way of your young Robert. Another Robert, you see. What a popular name that is! And what of your son, eh? My Lord Essex now. I must give him his full title I suppose.”
“He is well, Your Majesty, and with my Lord Burghley now.”
“Yes. Burghley reports that he is a clever
little fellow.”
“He is certainly bright, Your Majesty. I am proud of him.”
“And so you should be. You are young yet, Lettice, and a comely woman. I doubt your father before long will find a husband for you.”
She was silent, her eyes downcast, but I did notice that the color had deepened in her cheeks.
“And how does this wig become me?”
I could see it hardened my face and added a few years to it. When one grows older one's hair must never be darker than it was in one's youth. Lettice had an eye for color; she was one of the most elegant ladies of the Court. She saw what I saw and I was amused by the tact of her comment. She said the black was too coarse for my fine skin. She added: “The golden red is ideal.”
She was right. I made her get Robert's necklace and put it on me.
“Is it not beautiful, cousin,” I said. “It is a gift from my lord Leicester. He always chooses so carefully for me.”
She scratched me a little and I turned and nipped her on the arm. I had a feeling that the scratch was not accidental.
Lettice had an undoubted effect on me. I should have sent her away, and yet on the other hand I did enjoy tormenting myself with speculations as to a liaison between her and Robert.
As for Robert himself he was the same as ever—my devoted if unfulfilled lover, ever hopeful and able, at times, to hide a certain exasperation, knowing, of course, that negotiations for a French marriage were still going on and, I believed, casting lustful eyes on Lettice.
Sometimes I could be amused but at others I was quite angry; and in one of these moods I decided to play a trick on Robert just as I had when I had offered him to Mary of Scotland.
Princess Cecilia of Sweden was the sister of Eric who, at one time, had been one of my suitors. It had been said then that Robert had been bribed with the promise of marriage to Princess Cecilia if he could persuade me to take Eric. Those who put forward that suggestion clearly did not know Robert. It was hardly likely that he would consider Cecilia a fair exchange for me—for at that time he was certain that he was going to persuade me into marriage. Nothing came of that project and Eric went back to Sweden to meet his nut girl and Cecilia married the Margrave of Baden.
