by Laura Dowers
‘Soon.’
‘And married with witnesses, Rob. I do not want you disavowing our marriage when you grow tired of me.’
‘Oh, Lettice,’ he said, drawing her into his arms, ‘as if I could ever grow tired of you.’
55
Leicester House, London, June 1578
Robert waited in the gardens. He paced up and down, ignoring the stone bench which would have given him some bodily ease. He had been easy and cool with Lettice, talking of ridding himself of Douglass, but now it came to it, he felt uneasy. No, not uneasy, he scolded himself, ungallant, unkind, cruel. He turned at the crunch of gravel.
Douglass was walking towards him, her arms outstretched.
He brushed her aside. ‘Don’t, Douglass. That’s not why I’m here. Won’t you sit down?’
‘What’s wrong?’ she asked, and he heard the fear in her voice.
He turned aside. ‘Lettice is pregnant,’ he said, and heard her gasp. ‘And she wants me to marry her.’
Douglass grabbed his shoulder and spun him around. ‘I spit on your whore, do you hear me? I spit on her.’
‘Douglass -’
‘Let her have her bastard, give it your name if you want, but she won’t have you. You belong to me.’
‘I don’t, Douglass,’ he said angrily. ‘We were never married, not properly. I am free to marry whom I please, and it pleases me to marry Lettice.’
Douglass stared at him, her mouth open. ‘You’re lying,’ she breathed. ‘Of course we’re married. We went through a ceremony.’
‘Not a legal one. I did it because you insisted on being married. You left me no option, Douglass, I had to act as I did.’
‘You deceived me!’
‘I did, and it was wrong of me.’
Her tears began to fall. ‘Then you never loved me. It was all a lie.’
‘Not all of it,’ he sighed.
‘But we have a son, Robert.’
‘And he will be provided for.’
‘He’s a bastard,’ she cried, sinking onto the bench. ‘All these years, he’s been a bastard and I never knew it. How can you do this to your own son?’
Oh, how her words hurt! His chest tightened and tears pricked at the back of his eyes, but he willed himself to be resolute. ‘I shall give you seven hundred pounds a year, Douglass, for your welfare and our son’s. It should be enough. I will even help you to find a husband, if you wish it. I couldn’t bear the thought of you being lonely. Would you like me to do that, Douglass?’
Douglass rose from the bench and stared at him, her cheeks blotchy and her eyes puffy and red. ‘I don’t want you doing anything for me. I want you to rot, Robert Dudley. You and your whore.’
56
Wanstead House, Essex, September 1578
Robert decided to marry Lettice at his new house in Wanstead, close enough to London to get there and back to the Court within a few hours, yet distant enough to be away from prying eyes. He took his friend, Lord North, with him to act as a witness. Lettice had insisted on witnesses. When he and North arrived at Wanstead House, they found the rest of the wedding party already there.
‘Robert,’ Lettice halloed from her chair beside the hearth. She gestured at the man sitting opposite her. ‘Father was worried you weren’t going to come.’
Sir Francis Knollys frowned at his daughter. ‘Not at all. Leicester, good morning.’
‘Sir Francis,’ Robert nodded, taking his hand. ‘You know, seeing as we are about to be related, you should call me Robert.’
Knollys snorted, whether in agreement or not, Robert could not tell and decided not to pursue it. ‘My love.’ He moved towards Lettice, taking her hand in his and laying his lips to her fingers. ‘How are you?’
‘Fat and hungry,’ Lettice smiled up at him. ‘Lord North, how pleasant to see you again.’
North bowed, his eyes noting the swell of Lettice’s stomach beneath her loose red gown. ‘It’s a very great pleasure to be invited, my lady.’ He turned to greet Ambrose. ‘A secret wedding. This is the most excitement I’ve had all year.’
Ambrose and Robert laughed, Sir Francis frowned. Lettice asked when dinner would be served, and they all drank a toast to the wedding that would take place later that day.
‘Husband,’ Lettice smiled, and held out her arms to him. He stretched full length on the bed and wrapped his arms around her, pressing his lips to hers. The deed was done and there was no going back. He was well and truly, lawfully, married. He pulled away from her.
‘Rob, what’s the matter?’
‘Nothing.’ He kicked off his shoes and untied his doublet and shirt. Lettice watched him with pleasure. A nightshirt hung over the back of a chair next to the bed and he began pulling it over his head.
‘Robert, why ever are you putting that on?’
‘It is best that we don’t make love,’ he explained. ‘I don’t want to endanger the child.’
‘But it’s our wedding night. Walter never let my being with child stop him, and it did no harm.’
‘Nevertheless, Lettice. Not tonight. I have very weary brains for lovemaking.’
He climbed into the bed. She leaned into him, her slender fingers poking through an opening in his nightshirt and pulled gently at the greying hairs on his chest. ‘It’s not your brains I require, husband. You’re not paying any attention, are you? Are you thinking of her?’
Robert did not need to ask who she meant; ‘her’ was always Elizabeth.
‘Yes, Lettice, and before you shout at me, I must think of her. Everyone who knows of us keeps asking me the same thing; does she know? And they are all worried what will happen if she finds out. I must tell her of our marriage before someone else does.’
‘That dried up old hag,’ Lettice growled, pulling the bedcovers over her breasts. ‘I trust this is not the effect she will always have upon you, making you unwilling in bed.’ And with that, she turned on her side, yanking the covers over her shoulder and ending the conversation.
At length, her even breathing told Robert that she slept, and he felt guilty enough to curl up behind her, laying his arm over her waist, and clasping her hand in his, his chin on her shoulder. He felt supremely content, more so than he could ever remember feeling in his life before. He had a wife he loved, who was already carrying his child, and his influence and power at court stretched far and deep. But at the back of his mind, there was the knowledge that he owed almost of that he prized most dear to Elizabeth, and he could lose it all so very easily.
Part Four
His Own Man
1
Whitehall Palace, London, September 1578
‘Ah, Leicester, you’re returned,’ Cecil said, as he was helped into his chair by his page.
‘How’s the gout?’ Robert asked, noting the bandage on Cecil’s foot.
‘Better than it was, which is all I can hope for.’
‘Leicester,’ Hatton halloed him cheerfully as he entered the Chamber and clapped him on the shoulder. ‘It’s good to see you back. And you have some news I hear.’
‘Oh, God’s Death,’ Robert slapped his gloves upon the table, ‘how do you know about it?’
‘Leicester,’ Hatton laughed, ‘the whole Court knows about it.’
‘The queen too?’
‘Everyone except the queen. There isn’t anyone brave enough to tell her.’
‘Tell her what?’ Cecil demanded.
‘You don’t know?’ Hatton looked at him in surprise.
‘I have been ill in my bed, Hatton,’ Cecil said irritably. ‘I have had very little news from the Court and no gossip.’
‘Don’t you fret, Cecil, I have no doubt you shall find out soon enough,’ Robert assured him grimly.
Cecil, annoyed, began slapping his documents about him on the table. ‘Is Walsingham attending today?’ he muttered.
‘I saw him earlier, he said he would join us as soon as he is able,’ Robert said. ‘Now, tell me, has anything been decided about this damned Alencon affa
ir?’
‘Yes, you’ve missed quite a lot,’ Hatton said. ‘The little frog is sending his chief darling as he calls him, to woo on his behalf. A fellow named Simier.’
‘And what do we know of him?’
‘Only that he’s a rogue. Murdered his brother when he caught him in bed with his wife.’
‘Indeed? And what did he do to his wife?’
‘No one seems to know.’
‘Well, we can only hope his bad character will disgust the queen,’ Robert said.
Cecil looked up from his paperwork. ‘You are still opposed to this marriage, Leicester?’
‘I am, Cecil, and will remain so. Such a marriage is not fit for the country, nor the queen.’
‘The queen does not agree.’
‘Only because she listens to your advice. I wish I could persuade you of the danger such a marriage would mean.’
‘But the negotiations are just for policy, aren’t they, Cecil?’ Hatton asked. ‘The queen does not really mean to marry this Frenchman, does she?’
‘That, Hatton, only the queen knows. But until she informs us otherwise, we must proceed with the negotiations as if the marriage were a decided affair.’
‘When is this Simier arriving?’ Robert asked.
‘At the end of the week, if the Channel permits,’ Hatton said.
Robert sighed and shook his head. ‘Well then. We can do nothing until he arrives and declares their terms. So, what other business for us today?’
‘Rob, what’s the matter?’ Lettice asked him as they lay in bed.
‘I’ve been thinking. Hatton told me that the whole Court knows about our marriage. Elizabeth is bound to find out sooner or later, and I think it would be better if it came from me.’
‘Are you sure?’ Lettice asked, propping herself on her elbow and staring down at him.
‘You said it yourself, I am allowed to marry. And the Duke of Alencon’s envoy arrives tomorrow and I want to get this out of the way before all this French marriage nonsense starts. Leave for Wanstead in the morning, Lettice. I will get Elizabeth to come here, away from the court.’
‘Well, if you’re sure,’ Lettice said, settling back down. ‘I just hope I will have a husband to come back to.’
2
Leicester House, London, September 1578
Robert stared out of the window and looked down onto the river. It had been over two hours since he had sent the note to Elizabeth, asking her to come to him. Surely Elizabeth would not ignore him? Surely she would come?
His breath fogged a patch of window glass. He wiped it away with his sleeve and as the pane cleared, Elizabeth’s barge came into view. One of his servants was waiting at the barge steps, his arm outstretched to help her from the barge, but Elizabeth hurried past, gathering up her skirts above her knees. She half-walked, half-ran up the path to the house.
Robert waited.
The door swung open, banging against the wall behind.
‘Why aren’t you in bed?’ Elizabeth demanded. ‘Are you ill?’
Robert stepped around her and closed the door. ‘No, Bess, I’m not. I just needed to get you here quickly.’
‘Then you’ve worried me for nothing.’
‘Forgive me. It was the best stratagem I could devise.’
‘And it has worked well in the past,’ she frowned, taking a seat by the fire.
‘For us both, Bess.’
‘Well, what is it you want to say to me? If it is more about the Duke of Alencon, save it for the council chamber.’
‘No, Bess. It is not of your marriage I wish to speak of, but mine own.’
Elizabeth stared at him. ‘Yours? You wish to marry?’
‘I have married,’ he said quietly.
‘If this is some joke, Robin…’
‘No joke, Bess. I have married Lettice.’
She turned her head towards him, her expression almost incredulous. ‘You married that whore?’
‘Elizabeth, please, do not speak of her like that.’
‘That whore?’ she repeated. ‘For God’s sake, why?’
‘She is carrying my child.’
‘A child,’ Elizabeth whispered.
‘Yes. I have always wanted children and this, well, this could be my last chance for an heir.’
‘You already have a son, with Douglass Sheffield.’
‘I wasn’t married to Douglass.’
‘There was a ceremony.’
‘But it wasn’t valid. I paid a man to marry us, but he wasn’t a clergyman. You see, I wasn’t sure I wanted to be married then. I was still hoping for you,’ he smiled wanly, reaching for her hand, but she pulled it away.
‘Why did you have to marry Lettice?’ she wailed.
‘God’s Death, Bess, shall I tell you why? You told me there was no chance of our ever marrying, and I believed you. Neither Ambrose nor I had a legitimate heir to carry on our Dudley name, and I am not about to let everything we have worked for and spilt our family’s blood for, vanish into the dust when we are gone. I want a son, and I married Lettice because I love her. And you know why? Because she is so like you. Except that she allowed me into her bed and you did not.’
‘Is that it? Is that your reason? Is it me you think of when you two are rutting?’
‘I told you once, I could not live like a monk. And why exactly are you angry? Because I am married, or because I am married to Lettice?’
‘I don’t know why I’m angry,’ she cried, burying her face in her hands. ‘I understand, Rob, I do, about you wanting a son. It’s just that, that…. I thought you loved me.’
‘I do. I always have. That hasn’t changed. But a man can only take so many refusals.’
‘Robin, if we had bedded, would you have married her then?’
‘I... I don’t know, Bess. Why?’
‘We will bed, if you disavow her,’ Elizabeth said, looking up at him desperately. ‘You can come into my bed as often as you like, if you do, and promise never to see her again.’
Robert was stunned. After all these years, after all those refusals, she was now submitting to him? For a moment, the thought of taking her to bed, of having her in his arms and burying himself in her, shut out all thought of wives and heirs. But the moment passed. He shook his head.
‘I can’t disavow her, Bess. The marriage was legal, and we had many witnesses.’
She covered her mouth with her hand, stifling a sob. She felt her stomach lurch, sick and yet strangely relieved he had refused. ‘I am alone,’ she whimpered.
He knelt before her. ‘No, you’re not. I’m still here. I still love you.’
‘How can you? When you say you love her?’
‘I can’t explain it, but I know I do love you still. And I hope you can forgive me.’
She looked at him, his handsome face so earnest. How she had dreamt of that face, dreamt about kissing it. How she had admired his body, felt her own heat just thinking of him. Now, she would not be able to do that, because in her thoughts, he would be with Lettice, not her.
‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I can’t believe you can love two women at the same time. At the moment, Rob, I hate you.’
‘No, Bess, please…’
‘I hate you,’ she repeated, trying to make herself believe it. ‘I hate you. I want to hate you.’ She grabbed his head and kissed him fiercely. She pushed him back onto the floor and climbed on top of him. Her sharp teeth dug into his lips and he tasted blood. He pushed her away.
With a wrenching cry, Elizabeth stumbled to the window, pressing her burned forehead against the glass.
Robert lay where she had left him on the floor, catching his breath, his lips reddened with blood. He closed his eyes and waited.
Oh, how she hurt! Her head, her eyes, her throat, all were strained and aching. She focussed her eyes on the boats on the river, and waited for her heart to stop pounding. She could not look behind her, could not bring herself to look back at him. What must he think of her? Desperate, pathetic? To
want him even when he no longer wanted her. She flinched when he spoke.
‘What will you do?’
‘I don’t know,’ she answered meekly.
‘Will you send me to the Tower?’
Running her hand across her face, she said ‘I don’t know.’ She rose unsteadily from the window seat.
‘Stay.’
‘No.’ She glanced at him, saw his bruised and bloodied lips and looked away, cringing with shame. She strode to the door. ‘You will not return to Court. At least, not until I give you leave.’
She clambered onto the barge, knocking past the hands extended in aid, and fell into the cushioned seat. For a long moment, she stared into space, an image of Robert declaring love for another woman imprinted on her lenses. She called out to the boatmen to start rowing, and yanked at the hangings to shut herself in. The future lay before her, barren and bleak. Robert would leave her, more and more often, and she would be alone. Then Alencon walked into her mind, the prospective bridegroom she had thought to play with, make use of and then discard when his usefulness was spent. In him was a chance to not be alone. Oh God, she prayed silently, make me love him. I will need him now and I want to be married. And I so want to not be afraid of love any longer.
3
Greenwich Palace, London, February 1579
Elizabeth eyed Jean de Simier surreptitiously as the players enacted their scene. He was concentrating hard, the bawdy humour of the English stage a mystery to him. Hatton had told her of Simier’s history, of his savage revenge and murder of his unfaithful wife and his brother, and found she did not care. Hatton had hoped such a history would dissuade her from receiving Simier. Poor Hatton. He never understood her.
Simier must have felt her eyes upon him, for he turned his head and his bold, dark eyes glinted at her. She smiled, a tight, one-sided smile, not giving too much; he was, after all, the servant of a foreigner, not one of her own.
