by Laura Dowers
‘You want me to work?’
‘Well, why not? We haven’t any money, Amy, as well you know. If it wasn’t for Ambrose giving us this house, we wouldn’t even have anywhere to live.’
‘Oh yes, remind me we’re living on your brother’s charity.’
‘Why the devil do you say that?’ Robert snapped, sitting up, suddenly wide awake. ‘It’s not charity, it’s a financial arrangement. Ambrose has given us the house in exchange for paying off my mother’s debts.’
‘Which we can’t afford to do.’
‘Then I’ll have to borrow more money, won’t I? And it’s better to have land than money, Amy. If the idea of work pains you so much, you can always go and live with your father.’
‘You want to be rid of me, don’t you?’ Amy turned on him, her eyes filling with tears. ‘Why don’t you just say it?’
‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, Amy,’ he said, throwing back the bedclothes. ‘Don’t start.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘Away from you,’ he returned through gritted teeth, slamming the door behind him.
2
Hatfield Palace, Hertfordshire, May 1556
‘So, how are you?’ Elizabeth bit down on an almond biscuit, crumbs tumbling down her dress.
Robert watched her brush them away. ‘Well enough.’
‘That didn’t sound convincing, Robin.’ Robert didn’t look up, but gave a half smile. ‘I was sorry to hear about Jack and your mother.’
‘Thank you.’
She leant forward and placed her hand beneath his chin, forcing him to look at her. ‘What’s wrong?’
Robert sighed, taking hold of her hand. ‘I’m finding it...difficult, being free.’
‘Surely you wouldn’t rather be back in the Tower?’
‘No,’ he laughed, ‘but the only worry I had in the Tower was staying alive. I’ve been released, but there’s nothing left for me. No estates, they’ve all been taken by your sister. I have no money, it’s all gone to pay off debts. Ambrose had to give me a house to live in, and the only horses I have are the ones that work on the land. If I want to go riding, I have to borrow a neighbour’s horse.’
‘Poor Rob. I hadn’t realised things were as bad as that.’
‘Well, they are. But never mind. They’ll get better, I’m sure.’ He smiled at her.
‘How’s your wife?’ Elizabeth asked.
The smile fell from his face. ‘She’s fine.’ Elizabeth looked at him. He noticed the query on her face and endeavoured to explain. ‘It’s me. I’ve changed and she’s stayed the same.’
‘You don’t love her anymore?’ If he noticed the hopefulness in her voice, he didn’t show it.
‘Not as I once did,’ he admitted, ‘but it’s not her fault. I’m not the man she married. How could I be, after what I’ve been through?’
‘Perhaps when you have children –’
‘There aren’t going to be any children,’ he cut in angrily, throwing her hand away. ‘We’ve been married for five years and not once has she been with child. She must be barren.’
‘Then I’m sorry for you, Rob,’ Elizabeth said sincerely. ‘I think you would like to be a father.’
‘Well, anyway,’ he waved his hand in the air, signalling he wanted to change the subject, ‘you’re pleased to be back at Hatfield?’
‘Immeasurably,’ Elizabeth rolled her eyes. ‘I wouldn’t wish Sir Henry Bedingfield on anyone. My sister couldn’t have chosen a better gaoler.’
‘Do you hear any news from Court?’
‘I have my spies.’
‘Indeed!’ He made a face, impressed. ‘And who would they be?’
‘I’m not telling you,’ she slapped playfully at him. She became suddenly serious. ‘Philip wants to war against the French.’
‘A war? He’ll be needing men then?’
‘Oh, look at you,’ Elizabeth snorted in disgust. ‘Why do men get so excited at the idea of war? And you would fight for the king of Spain?’
‘I would fight for the Devil. I need to do something, Bess. I need money.’
‘You could get yourself killed!’
‘And what loss would that be?’
Elizabeth glared at him. ‘Your wife would miss you. Your family would miss you. I would miss you.’
‘Would you?’ he pouted.
‘Yes, God help me, I would.’
‘Who should I write to? Oh, come on, Bess, tell me. Who should I write to, to offer my services?’
Elizabeth shrugged. ‘To my sister’s secretary, I suppose. But how are you going to equip yourself for war? That takes money, Robin, or hadn’t you thought of that?’
‘I’ll have to borrow more, or sell some of the land around Hales Owen. I don’t suppose you could...?’
‘Me?’ Elizabeth laughed. ‘Next in line to the throne, I may be, Robin, but I have no money of my own that isn’t already spent twice over. My household costs a fortune to maintain. I should be asking you for a loan.’
‘If I could, I would, you know that.’
‘I know.’ She leaned over and touched his knee. ‘Money I may not have, but I do have horses. Shall we go for a ride?’
Robert took her hand and kissed it. ‘I was hoping you’d ask.’
3
Hales Owen, Norfolk, February 1557
‘And now you want to go to France?’ Ambrose threw up his hands in exasperation. ‘After what happened in London?’
Robert wanted to forget London. He had gone there, dragging Ambrose and Henry with him, needing to smell the stink of the city in his nostrils, desperate to feel part of something, if only for a short while. He had arranged to meet two brothers he had always thought of as friends. They turned out to be anything but. They had looked down their noses at him, reviled him for being a traitor and mocked his father. A fight followed, Ambrose having to pull Robert away. They had returned to their lodging house to find a stranger waiting for them. He answered none of their questions, merely informed them it would be better, safer, for them to leave London immediately. They had left the next morning.
‘Forget London,’ Robert said angrily.
‘I thought you had learned your lesson when we were warned to stay out of court affairs.’ Ambrose shook his head wearily. ‘We’re not welcome.’
Amy poured Robert another cup of wine. ‘Ambrose is right. Can’t you be content with me here?’
Robert looked away with a deep sigh. ‘No, I can’t. Oh, for heaven’s sake, Amy, be quiet,’ he snapped as she began to whimper. He leant across the table, his hands held out to Ambrose. ‘Come with me, Am. Henry and I are going to France whether you do or not, but I would so much like you to be with us.’
‘You haven’t dragged Henry into this?’
‘I didn’t have to drag him. He wants to go.’
‘And what will going to war achieve? Tell me that.’
‘Maybe we’ll make our fortune. King Philip needs men, and if we serve him well, who knows what will be granted us?’
‘If we come back,’ Ambrose pointed out. ‘We can’t afford to equip any men, Rob, so we’d have to serve under someone.’
‘I’ve already spoken with the Earl of Pembroke. We can serve under him. You’ll remember, he was a good friend to Father.’
‘Yes, he was.’ Ambrose chewed on his bottom lip, thinking.
Robert grew impatient. ‘Oh, say you’ll come, Am.’
Ambrose glared at him. ‘Well, of course I’ll come. God knows what would become of you both if I let you go on your own.’
Robert laughed and clapped his hands. ‘Oh, you won’t regret it, Am. We will do so well, King Philip won’t be able to ignore us.’
4
St Quentin, France, September 1557
The field stank. Battered bodies spilt their life-blood into the mud of St Quentin. Robert held himself up by hanging over the side of a horse-cart, and thanked God that he was still alive. A moment’s rest was all he allowed himself. Pushing away from the cart, he st
umbled over outstretched limbs, sinking ankle deep in the mud with each step. The mud had got everywhere; inside his boots, through rips in his shirts. His handsome face was grimed with it, merging with the blood of those he had fought.
Over the crackle and snap of fire, the moans of the dying and the shouts of the living, one voice rang out, hard and urgent, calling his name. He tried to find its origin, but black smoke blew into his eyes, blinding him. He stumbled forward, knuckling out from his eyes tiny pieces of ash and grit. Strong hands grabbed him and spun him around.
He blinked. ‘Ambrose?’ he croaked, his throat sore from the roar of battle cries. Ambrose was struggling for breath, his fingers digging painfully into Robert’s flesh.
‘Henry,’ Ambrose gasped, his tears marking channels down his mud-streaked cheeks. ‘Cannon shot. He’s dead.’
Robert stared at him, his mouth hanging open. ‘No,’ he cried. ‘No.’
‘I’ve seen him. Lying by his horse, half his body gone.’
‘You left him?’
‘I wanted to find you.’ Ambrose pulled Robert close. ‘There was nothing I could do for him.’
Robert pushed away. ‘Where is he?’ he shouted, trying to hurry through the gripping mud. ‘Where?’
Ambrose lurched after him. ‘There’s nothing you can do,’ he protested, grabbing Robert by the arm and pulling him back, almost collapsing on top of him. ‘He’s dead.’
He repeated the two awful words until he felt Robert accept the truth of them and stopped struggling. The two brothers, half-lay, half-crouched in the mud, spent, struck down with grief, whilst around them England lost the war.
5
Richmond Palace, Surrey, October 1557
Queen Mary’s eyes, set deep in her sallow, jowly face, squinted down at him. She sniffed pointedly at Robert’s riding clothes, caked in mud and manure and stinking of sweat.
‘You bring news from my husband?’ she growled.
‘I have, Your Majesty. Despatches from France.’
Mary stretched out her hand. ‘Give them to me.’
Robert untied the leather roll and pulled out the documents. Mary held them close to her face as she read.
‘I see you have lost your brother, Dudley.’
‘Yes, Your Majesty.’
She offered no condolences. ‘My husband is pleased with you. He professes you have been most valiant in France.’
‘The king is generous to say so.’
‘Indeed he is.’ Mary frowned, her mouth twisting as she looked down at him. ‘More than you realise. My husband requests that your family be restored in blood.’ Robert waited, not daring to breathe. He heard her rings tapping against the pommel of the chair. She sniffed once more, then said, ‘Rise, Lord Robert.’
He took hold of the hem of her skirt and kissed it, taking a moment to breath in the dusty smell of the cloth and slow the blood pounding in his hears. He rose and bowed his head.
‘I cannot adequately express my gratitude, Your Majesty.’
‘Hear me, Lord Robert,’ Mary said sternly. ‘Though I do as my husband wishes, I do not forget that you are the son of the traitor Northumberland, whose actions caused me to take the life of that poor girl, Jane Grey. An innocent, who would never have thought of the crown had it not been thrust upon her by your father. I will not have you at my court.’
Robert kept his head down. ‘I ask nothing further of Your Majesty. Your bounty has already been most generous. My only desire now is to return to the country.’
‘A sensible desire, Lord Robert. You may go.’
He backed away from her, hearing the whispers of the courtiers as they discussed his new fortune. In a daze, he found himself back in the stable yard, laying a shaking hand against the brick wall. The Dudley’s were back in the game. But what a price they had had to pay!
He walked towards the stalls. His horse was still resting, so he fell down in the straw and closed his eyes. It didn’t bother him that the queen didn’t want him at court. He had no desire to serve Mary. No, he would go back home and wait for the next queen to come along.
6
Hatfield Palace, Hertfordshire, November the 17th 1558
Elizabeth waited beneath the oak tree. Cecil had sent her word that Mary was dying and to expect to be named queen before the day was out. It troubled her that she felt no sense of grief or loss for her sister. If the situation had been reversed, if it was Elizabeth that lay dying, Mary would weep for her.
She saw them coming. She smoothed her skirts and held herself erect. She was determined to look like a queen.
Sir Nicholas Throckmorton climbed down from his horse and fished inside his velvet purse for the ring that he had taken from Mary’s stiff, cold finger, the ring that would symbolise the transference of sovereignty from the dead queen to the new one. He hurried towards her. He noticed her trembling lips, the eagerness in her eyes and knew he need waste no words of condolence. He fell to his knees and delivered his news that the queen was dead. He handed her the ring.
‘This is the Lord’s doing,’ Elizabeth said, trying hard not to smile. ‘It is marvellous in our eyes.’
She sank to her knees before him, clapped her hands together and silently mouthed a prayer. Did she pray for her dead sister? Throckmorton doubted it.
‘Come, my lord,’ she said, holding out her hand for him to help her to her feet. ‘Sir William Cecil is with you, I hope?’
‘He follows not far behind, Your Majesty.’ He heard her breath catch at the new title.
‘Good. I shall need him. Escort me back to the house, my lord. There are plenty of letters to write.’
7
Hales Owen, Norfolk, November the 18th 1558
Amy looked up from her sewing as Robert stamped into the chamber and fell into a chair.
His expression was thunderous. ‘Robert, what’s the matter?’
‘That damn carthorse threw me.’
‘You’re hurt?’
‘No,’ he said, shrugging off her searching hands. ‘What’s that?’ He pointed at a crumpled paper peeping out from the top of her bodice.
She pulled it out and tried to smooth out the creases. ‘It just came for you.’
He snatched it from her and broke the seal. ‘Oh, Amy,’ he breathed, his face breaking into a grin, ‘the best news. Mary has died. Elizabeth is queen.’
‘Oh, really?’ Amy said, unimpressed. Robert disappeared up the stairs and she hurried after him. ‘What are you doing?’ she asked breathlessly, falling onto their bed.
‘Elizabeth has sent for me.’ He flung off his riding coat and washed hurriedly, slapping water under his armpits and down his back.
‘Elizabeth wants you, so you go?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘And what about me?’
‘What about you?’
‘Can I come with you?’
‘No,’ he said, pulling on a clean shirt.
‘Why not?’
‘I can ride quicker on my own.’
‘I suppose you think I’ll be in the way?’
‘Amy, please understand. This is what I’ve been waiting for.’
Amy looked away, determined to hold back her tears. ‘When will you be back?’ she asked quietly.
‘Come here.’ Robert held out his arms and Amy rushed to him. ‘I’ll return as soon as I can.’
‘Promise?’ she looked up at him with her large brown eyes.
‘I promise.’
8
Hatfield Palace, Hertfordshire, November the 20th 1558
Robert had been made to wait, like all the others, in the Presence Chamber and he was growing bored. The room was filling up, courtiers jostling for space and more than once, Robert had been elbowed aside to make room. He was relieved when a page called out his name, and instructed him to follow.
The page showed him into a much smaller room. Elizabeth was standing by the window, watching the new arrivals. She was dressed in a simple gown of black and white, her red hair b
rushed straight, falling like a curtain down her back. Robert took a step towards her.
‘Good morning, Lord Robert.’
Robert turned. William Cecil stood behind a desk, its surface littered with papers. ‘Cecil. What are you doing here?’
‘I am Her Majesty’s Secretary, Lord Robert.’
‘Indeed,’ Robert said. He turned pointedly away, striding towards Elizabeth and sinking to one knee. ‘Your Majesty.’
Elizabeth held out her hand. ‘Robin,’ she purred, as he pressed his lips to it. ‘How good it is to see you again. We have both had changes of fortune, haven’t we?’
‘Indeed we have.’
‘Oh, get up. I can’t have my Master of Horse on his knees.’
Robert rose. ‘Master of Horse?’
‘Of course. Who else is more suited to the position?’
‘No one,’ he agreed.
‘But I warn you, this won’t be a sinecure. You’ll probably have more work than you realise.’
‘I’ll be glad of it. I’ve had years of nothing to do.’
‘Your first duty,’ Cecil said, ‘will be in arranging the transportation of Her Majesty and her household to London. May I ask if your wife accompanied you?’
‘She stayed in the country.’
‘Good. We haven’t much room to accommodate too many spouses. Of course, once we are at Court, arrangements could be made for her. Perhaps as one of the Ladies of the Bedchamber?’
‘No,’ both Robert and Elizabeth said. Elizabeth turned away, her face reddening.
‘My wife does not care for the town,’ Robert explained. ‘She would much rather stay in the country.’
Cecil raised his eyebrows, looking between Robert and Elizabeth. ‘I see.’
