The Queen's Favourite

by Laura Dowers

  ‘Much the same as they were,’ Elizabeth said. ‘Although, I think I have finally persuaded Cecil that I will not be considering Philip of Spain.’

  ‘Where is Cecil? I haven’t seen him for days.’

  ‘In Scotland. The French Regent, Mary de Guise, has agreed to negotiate with us.’

  ‘Oh, yes?’ Robert said with little interest. Elizabeth smiled to herself. She placed her hand in his.

  ‘Will it always be like this, Bess? You pushing me away?’

  She brushed back a curl of hair from his forehead. ‘No more questions.’

  18

  Whitehall Palace, London, June 1560

  No wonder the Romans never bothered with Scotland, Cecil thought as he shuffled wearily into his rooms. How could any civilised woman (and though she was a Catholic, he would concede that Mary de Guise was civilised) live and rule in such a place? The country was inhospitable and the people filthy savages.

  And yet, he had reason to be proud of his time in Scotland, for had he not just negotiated a masterpiece of a treaty? The Auld Alliance (that centuries old agreement between France and Scotland to unite against a common enemy) was now broken, thanks to Cecil, and the French ordered to withdraw their troops from Scotland.

  He wanted to see the queen to inform her of his success. He looked up as the door opened and his page returned with a jug of hot water. ‘Set it down over there. Tell me boy, where is the queen tonight?’

  ‘She takes supper in her chambers, Master Cecil,’ the boy replied.

  ‘Why in her chambers? Is she not well?’

  The boy smirked. ‘Oh, she’s well enough. But she has company there. Lord Robert Dudley dines with her most nights.’

  ‘Take that insolent grin from your face, boy,’ Cecil said sharply. ‘Now, find me a clean shirt in that trunk and be quick about it.’

  ‘Cecil,’ Elizabeth halloed from the dinner table. ‘Come in.’

  ‘Your Majesty,’ he bowed. ‘Lord Robert.’

  Robert grinned up at him, but did not rise from his seat beside Elizabeth. ‘Cecil. How was Scotland?’

  ‘Cold,’ he answered tersely, ‘but productive, I am pleased to say, Your Majesty.’

  ‘Indeed?’ Elizabeth raised an eyebrow. ‘How so?’

  Cecil swallowed uneasily. She sounded doubtful. Worse, she sounded scornful. ‘The Auld Alliance is no more. A new treaty, the Treaty of Edinburgh, now takes its place.’

  ‘It hasn’t been signed though, has it?’ Elizabeth said sharply, scrutinising a plate of sugared almonds that Robert waved beneath her nose. She selected one and looked up at Cecil enquiringly.

  ‘Not yet, but it will be,’ Cecil replied stiffly, realising with dismay she had already heard his news. From who? he wondered.

  ‘This is the treaty that removes any claim Mary Stuart has to my throne?’

  ‘Yes, madam.’

  ‘Do you honestly think that woman will renounce her claim?’

  ‘I do, yes.’

  Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed. ‘I never took you for a fool, Cecil.’

  Cecil could have sworn Dudley snickered. ‘Even if Mary Stuart doesn’t sign, madam, and I am confident she will, there are other terms in the treaty that benefit your realm greatly. French troops are preparing to withdraw from Scotland even now. The Royal Arms of England have been removed from the royal flag of France. Mary Stuart can no longer lay claim to your throne.’

  ‘That won’t stop her. Still, I suppose you have done well enough, Cecil. What, Robin?’ She bent towards Robert as he whispered in her ear. ‘What of Calais?’ Elizabeth suddenly asked. ‘Do I get Calais back?’

  Cecil glared at Robert. ‘No, madam. Calais belongs, irretrievably, to the French.’

  ‘And you dare to stand there and call it a victory?’

  Cecil was taken aback. ‘I claim no victory, madam, but I have toiled for your sake, and I have, I believe at least, achieved a great deal.’

  ‘Toiled-,’ Elizabeth began incredulously.

  ‘Yes, madam,’ he interrupted her almost savagely. ‘And had your head not been turned, you would now be agreeing with me.’

  Elizabeth looked at Robert, who kept his eyes on the trembling Cecil. Cecil was angry and struggling to keep his temper under control.

  ‘My head turned?’ Elizabeth screeched. ‘How dare you speak so to me?’

  ‘Madam, if you will give me leave to speak with you alone.’

  ‘No, I will not.’

  ‘Then you break that promise you made me on the day of your accession, Your Majesty, when you said if I ever needed a private audience, you would grant it.’

  ‘I will not hear you alone so you can malign my friends,’ she stammered.

  Cecil straightened. ‘I have delivered my news, Your Majesty, and long for my bed. If you would be so good as to peruse this paper,’ he said holding out a list to her. ‘It is an account of my personal expenses contracted during my business in Scotland -’

  Elizabeth glanced at it. ‘Do you think to dip your hand in the Privy Purse to pay your petty expenses?’

  He felt the burn of humiliation upon his cheeks. ‘I was in Scotland on official business, madam,’ he protested.

  She ignored him. ‘Get the playing cards, Robin.’

  ‘Of course, madam. Let me show Cecil out first.’ Robert rose and took Cecil’s arm.

  Cecil shook him off. ‘I know my way, sir,’ he growled.

  Robert smiled. ‘Of course you do. I thought perhaps you needed help.’

  ‘I need none from you.’

  ‘You may find that you do soon enough,’ he said, keeping his voice low. ‘There may come a time, Cecil, when you will need all the help I am prepared to give you.’

  ‘When, and if, that day ever comes, I will not stay around to ask for it.’ He looked pointedly over Robert’s shoulder. ‘Good night, Your Majesty.’

  Elizabeth gave a tight nod. ‘Good night, Cecil. We will speak again in the morning, when you’re rested.’

  He made her a bow, shorter than usual and she knew she had hurt him.

  ‘What an insolent fellow he is,’ Robert said when Cecil had gone. He pulled open a drawer in a chest by the wall and retrieved a pack of cards.

  ‘No more insolent than you,’ she snapped. ‘Why did you make me speak so to him?’

  ‘I? What did I do?’

  ‘You made me speak harshly, when I had no cause.’

  ‘Oh, his pride’s just a little wounded, that’s all,’ Robert said, sitting and shuffling the cards. ‘He’ll be fine in the morning.’

  ‘I did make him a promise.’

  ‘So? He’s only your secretary.’

  ‘He’s a good man.’

  ‘Is he?’

  ‘Oh, what do you know of it?’ She grabbed up the cards and threw them at him. She rose and crossed to the window, staring out into the darkness.

  ‘Bess?’ Robert asked quietly. ‘Forgive me.’

  His voice was soft and her ears loved the sound of it. She turned and her anger melted as she looked upon him, his face half in shadow, the candlelight glinting in his eyes. It made her stomach flutter just to look upon him. ‘I do. I fear I’ll forgive you anything.’

  He moved to her and took her hand in his. ‘What sweet words, Bess,’ he whispered, leaning in close, his breath hot upon her cheek.

  ‘Sweet words,’ she whispered back, ‘sweet Robin.’

  He heard the door close behind him. They were probably laughing at him now, her and Dudley. He could just picture them. Even the warders on either side of the door were exchanging glances. That one, the one with the crooked mouth, was smirking. Cecil glared at him.

  ‘Look to your business,’ he snapped and stormed off down the corridor.

  ‘Master Cecil,’ a heavily-accented voice called out.

  Cecil halted and turned. The Spanish Ambassador, Bishop de Quadra, was hurrying after him. ‘Bishop?’

  ‘Master Secretary.’ He peered into Cecil’s face, noting his flushed skin. �
�Are you unwell?’

  ‘Not unwell, Bishop. Angry and disappointed.’

  ‘Why so?’

  Cecil took a deep breath. He was not used to sharing confidences, but why the hell not? ‘I’ll tell you why. I return from Scotland, having been away on the queen’s business, spending so much of my own money that I shall be in debt for years, only to find the queen scorns all my efforts and bids me go so she can dally with Lord Robert Dudley.’

  ‘Ah, Lord Robert,’ De Quadra nodded, understanding completely. ‘It is unfortunate that the queen should have so ill regarded a man as Lord Robert so close to her. It does her reputation no good, no good at all. And he a married man.’

  ‘Disgraceful, I agree. Though he may be a widower soon enough. Apparently, his wife has a malady in one of her breasts and is thought likely to die.’

  ‘Indeed?’ De Quadra raised both his eyebrows in interest.

  ‘And,’ Cecil hurried on, ‘I have heard that his wife believes there are attempts to poison her.’

  ‘By whom?’

  ‘Who can say?’ Cecil shrugged.

  ‘The poor lady.’

  ‘Of course, these are just rumours,’ Cecil said. ‘There may be nothing in them.’

  ‘Well, yes, the Court is a rumour mill,’ De Quadra agreed unhappily. ‘And yet, they must spring from somewhere.’

  ‘Time will tell. But, sir, as you know the queen and are a friend to her, I beg you, say nothing of this. I fear for her reputation.’

  ‘You need beg nothing of me, Master Secretary,’ De Quadra assured him, his brain already working on the wording of his next letter to his master, the king of Spain. ‘If you will excuse me.’

  Cecil willed his heart to slow as he watched De Quadra hurry away. He knew his words would be written down and repeated, and was glad of it. Perhaps hearing the poison rumours would shock Elizabeth into ridding herself of Dudley. Better still, if Amy Dudley died, with all these rumours bruited abroad, Dudley himself would come under suspicion and then the queen could not afford to have him near her. Oh yes, that would wipe the grin off that handsome face. Cecil allowed himself a little smile as he walked back to his rooms.

  19

  Cumnor Place, Oxfordshire, September, 1560

  Amy had heard them talking, whispering amongst themselves, thinking they couldn’t be heard. Their filthy gossip had meant her mind had not had a moment of rest. She hadn’t slept properly for months. She would wake in the middle of the night, stretch out a bare leg and feel only the cold mattress beside her and for a sleep-befuddled moment, would wonder where her husband was. Then she would remember, and there would be a drag at her heart.

  It had been three months since she had last seen Robert. He had returned to Syderstone, full of concern for her, but he had seemed distracted, as if he was doing his duty but his mind, and perhaps his heart, was elsewhere. He had moved her to Cumnor Place, so that she would be lodging with his friends. For her comfort, he had told her, and for his of course, so he would know she was being looked after. She agreed without argument, even though the Odingsells bored her and irritated her with their kindnesses. Was it really for her comfort, or for his? Every time she took a sip of wine, or a mouthful of food, she wondered if the gossip was true and Robert was poisoning her. She found that she didn’t care. She felt half dead anyway.

  This morning the pain had been terrible. It had woken her from a troubled sleep, bringing tears to her eyes, the left side of her body aching unbearably. She had pushed herself upright, gasping and wincing, clutching her left breast as if touch alone could stop the pain.

  Her maid, Pinto, had taken up residence on a truckle bed in her mistress’s chamber for the last month, concerned at Amy’s diminishing weight and pale, gaunt appearance. She had awoken early, as the first shafts of dawn’s light penetrated the chamber, but had lain quite still, listening to the breathing of her mistress. At the first rustle of bedclothes, she had sprung up and rushed to the bedside.

  Nothing could be done, of course, save giving Amy her medicine that would numb the pain. It would soon wear off, leaving her tired and irritable. As the pain faded and her eyes grew heavy, Amy complained about the noise from below. The servants were being too noisy; did they not know she was ill?

  ‘Isn’t there a fair today?’ Amy had mumbled. Pinto had answered in the affirmative. ‘Well, send them out to it. I want some peace.’

  ‘They won’t like going on a Sunday,’ Pinto had said. ‘Only the common folk go then.’

  ‘I don’t care. I want them gone.’

  ‘What about Mistress Odingsell? I can’t make her go.’

  ‘She can do as she pleases. The servants will go. And you too.’

  ‘Me?’

  Despite Pinto’s protestations, Amy had been adamant. So Pinto went to the fair, and made her complaints to the other servants, finding them more receptive than her mistress.

  As the hours passed, Amy found she did not enjoy her solitude as much as she had anticipated. And the pain was returning. She fumbled through the medicine chest, cursing herself for not getting Pinto to make up her medicine before leaving. Well, she had seen Pinto make it often enough, she would do it herself. It tasted good, even if the consistency was rather thicker than usual. It didn’t matter. If she had put too much in, it would last the longer.

  Mistress Odingsell knocked on her door around noon, and asked if Amy wanted to dine with her in her chamber. Not overly fond of the old woman, but restless and wanting company, Amy agreed. She soon regretted it. Mistress Odingsell chattered and ate, chattered and ate until Amy grew sick of her fat, snapping mouth. She rose, saying she needed some fresh air and would walk in the garden. The old woman volunteered to accompany her, if she would but wait until she had finished her dinner. Amy assured her that she would be fine on her own, especially as she knew her friend would want to take a nap after eating. She shuffled from the room before Mistress Odingsell could protest further.

  She headed for the stairs. Her foot caught in her long skirt as she stepped onto the third tread. She kicked the heavy fabric away, annoyed at how fuddled her head seemed. Her need for fresh air had not been a fabrication. She needed it to blow the cobwebs away. She stepped down another tread. Again, her foot caught. She stumbled forward, coming down heavily on the next step, the impact juddering up through her spine. She cried out in pain.

  And then she was falling…falling…

  20

  Whitehall Palace, London, September 1560

  Tamworth stood at the foot of his master’s bed and looked down at the sleeping man. ‘My lord,’ he said loudly. ‘My lord, you must wake up.’

  Robert turned his face into the pillow and mumbled for Tamworth to go away. But Tamworth persisted and eventually Robert opened sleep-encrusted eyes. ‘What is it?’

  ‘My lord, a man is here from Cumnor. He brings sad news.’

  Robert was wide awake in an instant. He sat bolt upright and threw back the sheets. ‘Is it my wife?’

  ‘I’m afraid so, my lord.’

  ‘Has she...’ he swallowed. ‘Is she - ?’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’

  Robert swung his legs to the floor and rose, crossing to the window and pressing his forehead against the glass. He closed his eyes. ‘Was it peaceful?’ he asked hopefully.

  Tamworth hesitated. ‘My lord, I think you should see the man who has come.’

  Robert turned to him, wondering at his evasiveness. ‘What is it?’

  ‘The messenger can explain better.’ Tamworth hurried to the outer chamber and returned with a short, red-faced man, dusty from the road. ‘This is the man. Bowes.’

  ‘You brought the news of my wife,’ Robert said, pulling on a dressing-gown.

  ‘Yes, my lord,’ Bowes said. ‘Lady Dudley was found yesterday evening.’

  ‘Found?’ Robert thought it was an odd way to describe it.

  Bowes looked sharply at Tamworth. Had he not told him? ‘Yes, my lord. Lady Dudley was found at the bottom of the stairs. He
r neck was broken.’

  ‘What?’ Robert gasped, taking a few shaky steps forward. ‘But I thought her illness –’

  ‘No, my lord,’ Bowes shook his head. ‘It was the fall that killed her.’

  ‘But how did she come to fall?’

  ‘No one can say. No one saw it happen. Only Mistress Odingsell was in the house and she was in her chamber.’

  ‘But where were the servants?’

  ‘Lady Dudley had sent them to the fair at Abingdon.’

  ‘But my wife hated to be left on her own.’

  ‘It’s true, my lord. She even sent her maid away.’

  Robert sat down on the bed. ‘I don’t understand it.’ He put his head in his hands.

  ‘My lord,’ Tamworth said, ‘I think perhaps you should dress now. You should see the queen and tell her of this yourself, before she hears of it from other quarters.’

  Robert looked up and Tamworth saw that he had been crying. ‘Yes, of course. Get out my black doublet and hose, Tam.’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’

  Elizabeth had not yet risen. Robert was told by a grim-faced Kat Ashley that it was unreasonable to ask to see the queen at such an early hour.

  ‘I must see her,’ he said.

  Kat looked at him. This wasn’t the brash Robert Dudley she was used to. She noticed the tear tracks down his cheeks, the sniff of his nose. ‘Is it important?’

  Robert nodded.

  ‘Wait here,’ she said. She went back into the bedchamber and shook Elizabeth’s shoulder gently. ‘Your Majesty, Lord Robert needs to see you urgently.’

  ‘Is something wrong?’ Elizabeth asked, sitting up.

  ‘I think so. He’s been crying.’

  Elizabeth hurried out of bed and Kat helped her on with her dressing-gown. ‘Let him come in,’ Elizabeth said. ‘Rob.’ She went to him as he walked in and took hold of his hands. They were cold. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘Amy’s dead.’

  A pause. ‘Oh my God,’ Elizabeth said quietly. ‘When?’

  ‘Yesterday.’