The Queen's Favourite

by Laura Dowers

  ‘By the severest penalty. Any man found violating a woman will be taken and hung immediately. It says there,’ he pointed with the tip of a quill to the broadsheet.

  ‘Very well, Uncle,’ Philip rolled the sheet back up and stuffed it into his doublet. ‘I trust the proclamation will deter any man from testing your punishment.’

  ‘I hope so,’ Robert nodded, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. ‘Phil, is there something you want to say to me? You seem to have an expectant air about you.’

  Philip nodded. ‘If we are only to defend the towns we already hold and make no overt gestures of war towards the Spanish, what you are you going to do when the Netherlanders demand more?’

  ‘I could tell them the truth, that the queen hopes my presence here will make the Spanish pack up their guns and go home, but then, that would sound ridiculous, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘The queen must be made to understand the situation here, Uncle. Is there no one you can send to her to explain?’

  ‘Walsingham will do what he can for me,’ Robert said. ‘And I have been telling her for months.’

  ‘I fear the queen is ill using you, Uncle,’ Philip said, patting Robert’s hand. ‘Does she know how unwell you are? Sending you here-’

  ‘I asked for this command, Phil. I need it.’

  ‘Even if it makes you ill, and it will do, Uncle, I can see it.’

  ‘I can’t expect you to understand,’ Robert said kindly. ‘You are a young man, and will, no doubt, do great things. My time is nearly up and what have I to show for it? Nothing. No son, you are my heir. No achievements, only a reputation for scandal. I need to achieve something before I die. You say nothing, Phil, I see, you know it’s true.’

  ‘I know you think it is true. But I assure you, Uncle, your family knows your worth, even if nobody else does.’

  24

  The Hague, Netherlands, January 1585

  ‘My New Year’s gift to the queen,’ Robert said, holding up a necklace of pearls and jewels, a large central diamond, flanked by enormous rubies. ‘It cost a fortune. Do you think she will like it?’

  Philip shrugged, raising an eyebrow at such extravagance. ‘You know the queen better than I, Uncle.’

  ‘She will like it. Davison will take it back for me when he leaves tomorrow.’

  ‘Talking of Davison, he’s outside with a delegation from the Assembly. They want to see you.’

  ‘But it’s Sunday’ Robert protested.

  ‘They know, and don’t care. Will you see them?’

  ‘Oh, I suppose so, though don’t let it go on too long. I want my dinner.’

  Philip laughed and threw his arm around Robert’s shoulders. ‘I thought your wife insisted on you eating less, Uncle.’

  ‘She can insist all she wants, Phil. She is not here.’

  They strode out into the main hall to meet the delegation. Six men doffed their black caps and bowed. Then they offered him a crown.

  Robert wasn’t sure he had heard correctly at first, their accents managing to mangle some of their attempts at English pronunciation, but when he looked at Philip, who wore an undisguised expression of surprise and perplexity, he realised he must have heard correctly. They did not call it sovereignty, they termed it Supreme Governor of the United Provinces, but it amounted to the same thing.

  Robert thanked them, but told them, as any good subject would have done, that he could not accept without his queen’s permission. They pressed him again. There was no time for prevarication, they insisted. Their States were divided without a leader. They wanted him to be their leader. Was it not a generous offer?

  ‘God’s Death,’ Robert yelled as he strode back into his chamber.

  ‘Uncle, what will you do?’ Philip asked, grabbing the door and quickly closing it.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Robert floundered. ‘What are they thinking of, putting me in this position?’

  ‘No doubt they thought it would please you.’

  ‘Elizabeth refused their crown, and now, they as good as offer it to me.’

  ‘You must write to the queen,’ Philip hurried to the table and sorted through paper until he found a clean sheet. He dipped a quill into the inkwell, scattering blobs of ink over the tablecloth. ‘Shall I write, Uncle?’

  Robert was not listening. He stood before the fire, gazing into the dancing flames. His mind was a whirl. Here on offer was what he had wanted all his life. He had briefly been brother to a king consort, son to a king in all but name, and had come close to marrying two queens. All that had escaped him. And now he was being offered the position of Supreme Governor. Well, all right, it was not king, but it was as good as. He wanted it, and God knew, he deserved it. Who but him had campaigned so vigorously for the Netherlanders cause? Who had lost favour, standing and health in the pursuit? Here, these people appreciated him, as he had never been appreciated in England.

  Philip questioned him again.

  ‘No, not the queen. Cecil and Walsingham first.’

  ‘What do you want me write?’

  ‘Tell them of the Netherlanders offer, and how much they understand they are beholden to Her Majesty. Tell them that I am waiting to hear of the queen’s permission before accepting, but trust that her answer will not take too long, as I am importuned to accept with all haste, due to the current deplorable situation here. How does that sound?’

  ‘It sounds very good. I shall give it to Davison and he can take it back to England with him tomorrow.’

  25

  The Hague, Netherlands, April 1585

  No word came from Elizabeth. The Netherlanders’ offer was made again and again. They grew impatient and irritated with the delay. Much longer, and they would feel insulted too. Robert did not know that bad weather had delayed Davison in reaching England, so Elizabeth didn’t hear about the offer until weeks later. By that time, Robert felt he had to accept, but once accepted, he was not so sure he had done the right thing.

  Sir Thomas Heneage arrived at Robert’s headquarters, cap in one hand, and a letter from the queen in the other. He asked to see Robert immediately. Robert, whose brow had grown moist with the news of his arrival, had him shown in to his private chamber, sure that he only brought news of condemnation with him.

  ‘Sir Thomas,’ Robert greeted him with a forced smile and took his hand. ‘You had an easy journey?’

  ‘I did, my lord. You must forgive me if I dispense with some of the pleasantries. I have a letter from the queen.’

  Robert swallowed uneasily as Heneage held out the letter with the queen’s seal emblazoned upon it. He took the letter and turned his back to read.

  Heneage waited patiently while the earl read. These two had once been rivals; now Heneage felt only sympathy for the man, who suffered under the queen’s love.

  Robert wiped his sweaty brow with his handkerchief. Elizabeth insisted that he renounce the title.

  ‘My lord?’ Heneage enquired.

  ‘I suffer the queen’s displeasure,’ he said, ‘but no doubt you knew that already.’

  ‘I did, my lord. But I can tell you, Cecil has worked on your behalf and has persuaded the queen that a formal resignation of your title will not be necessary, just its relinquishment.’

  ‘That was kind of him,’ Robert said. ‘I do feel the queen’s indignation at me could have been avoided, though.’

  ‘In what way, my lord?’

  ‘Davison,’ Robert said. ‘If he had told the queen what I told him to say, she would have understood that I had no choice.’

  ‘You feel Davison is to blame?’

  ‘Well, am I to blame?’ Robert replied indignantly. ‘For myself, I would rather have not been put in such a position. I didn’t ask for this title.’

  No, but you did not refuse it either, thought Heneage, and here you are, blaming a poor secretary. ‘My lord, perhaps you should write to the queen herself, put your side to her. I am sure you will be able to placate her. You have her love.’

  Robert was not so sure.
>
  Robert did write, but it was some months before Elizabeth calmed down and she stopped berating him in her letters. By April, she was calling him her Sweet Robin once more. He could breathe freely again, and return with a focussed mind to the business of war.

  Months passed, and Robert was too busy to worry about Elizabeth. This great mission of his to help the Netherlanders chase the Spanish away was turning out to be the biggest disappointment of his life.

  His army was suffering, diminishing daily as soldiers died or deserted. Their pay was not even reaching them, but being diverted into the corrupt pockets of Robert’s officers, and Elizabeth refused to send more. Robert began paying his remaining men out of his own dwindling coffers, and it was a relief when he received a letter from Cecil, recalling him to England.

  There was a dilemma at Court. A decision had to be made whether the troublesome Scottish queen, Mary Stuart, imprisoned but constantly plotting, should live or die. Elizabeth was being difficult, and only Robert, out of all her councillors, knew how to handle her.

  26

  Whitehall Palace, London, January 1587

  ‘She has signed it.’ Davison showed Robert, Walsingham and Cecil the warrant for the execution of Mary Stuart. ‘But she said I was not to show it to the council.’

  Walsingham looked at Robert. ‘Why sign it then?’

  Robert didn’t answer, but took the document from Davison.

  ‘We can do nothing,’ Cecil sighed. ‘Well, Leicester?’

  Robert rubbed his chin. ‘She wants Mary Stuart dead, I’m sure of it. She just doesn’t want be the one to give the order.’

  ‘No one else can give it,’ Walsingham said irritably. ‘The order has to come from her.’

  ‘She’s worried about the precedent it will create if we execute an anointed queen,’ Robert explained. ‘She thinks if it could be done to Mary Stuart, then it could be done to her. And she’s always been wary of executing her kin.’

  ‘She’s different from her father in that, at least,’ Walsingham muttered. ‘So, what are we going to do?’

  ‘I say we send it on,’ Robert said. Cecil and Walsingham looked at him in surprise. ‘If we don’t, this damn matter will never be resolved, and Mary Stuart will continue to plague us with her plots to take the throne. Don’t look at me like that. This is what you brought me back for, isn’t it? To persuade the queen to make a decision? Well, I’ve told her that she should execute the Scottish queen, and here, she has signed the warrant. What more do you want?’

  ‘She expressly told me not to show it to you though, my lord.’ Davison reminded him.

  Robert, still believing that Davison had failed him with his handling of the sovereignty affair, looked up at him meanly. ‘I think I have a deeper understanding of the queen than a mere secretary, Davison. Leave this to us.’

  He was pleased to see Davison redden before he turned back to Walsingham and Cecil. ‘Well, are you going to be cowardly or do as I say?’

  Walsingham didn’t mind being called names, but he agreed with Robert that they would never be free of Mary Stuart until her head was off. ‘Send the warrant to Fotheringhay Castle,’ he said. ‘Have them perform the deed immediately.’

  ‘Cecil?’ Robert raised an eyebrow at him.

  ‘Yes,’ he said after a long pause, ‘send it.’

  ‘Thank God we’ve reached an agreement,’ Robert said, handing the warrant back to Davison. ‘Seal it and send it.’

  ‘And if the queen dislikes what we’ve done?’ Walsingham asked when the door had closed upon Davison.

  ‘Fortunately,’ Robert said with a tired smile, ‘I’ll be back in the Netherlands by the time Mary Stuart’s head is off, so whatever Elizabeth thinks of our decision, I won’t be here to hear it.’

  27

  The Netherlands, March 1587

  Robert returned to the Netherlands, and a siege. The Spanish inhabitants of the town, Zutphen, had barricaded themselves in against the Dutch and English forces.

  ‘Uncle,’ Philip cried, bursting into Robert’s tent and waving a letter. ‘General Parma has written to Marshal Verdugo. Our soldiers intercepted the messenger.’ He paused to catch his breath. ‘Parma intends to re-supply Zutphen. He is sending a convoy, guarded by only six hundred men.’ Robert snatched the letter from Philip’s hand. ‘Six hundred, Uncle. We can take that supply train and end this siege. We have men enough, don’t you think?’

  ‘Yes, I think we do,’ Robert agreed. ‘Tomorrow morning then. Early.’

  ‘An ambush, Uncle?’ Philip grinned.

  Robert smiled back, his first in days. ‘An ambush, Phil.’

  They woke the next morning to a thick fog and it pleased them, knowing that the fog would hide them. Then it lifted, and Robert and Philip could see the supply train, but it was escorted not by six, but fifteen hundred horsemen and at least three thousand foot soldiers. The English position exposed, there was no time to retreat. They had no choice but to press on. Their attack had lost the element of surprise, but it was still quick enough for the English cavalry to charge the Spanish and see them retreat beyond their own pike men. But it was not enough, for no sooner did the English cavalry pass the pikes, than they were driven back by musket fire.

  ‘Leicester,’ Norreys pulled his horse alongside Robert’s and snatched at the mare’s bridle. ‘I could do with more men.’

  ‘I can’t spare any,’ Robert shouted above the noise. ‘You shall have to do the best you can with what you have.’

  ‘If I must, I must. But you should be look more cheerful, my lord. A mere handful of your men have driven the enemy back three times.’

  ‘That should make me cheerful?’ Robert scoffed. ‘Yes, they have driven the enemy back three times, and three times have they returned. Get back to your men, Norreys. See if you can conjure a victory out of this debacle.’

  28

  Zutphen, The Netherlands, March 1587

  Robert stood at the entrance to his tent, the flap batting against his arm, watching as the smoke and dirt of battle passed by him. ‘How many men did we lose?’ he asked as Norreys joined him.

  ‘Twenty two foot, no more than thirteen horse.’

  ‘And the Spanish? How many did they lose?’

  ‘Three hundred. Maybe more.’

  ‘Well, that is something,’ Robert said bitterly. ‘For all your talk of victory earlier, the supply train still got through, the Spanish got their supplies.’

  ‘My lord,’ shouted a young boy, skidding to a halt before Robert, his short dirty blond hair sticking up in spikes where it was coated in dried mud. ‘You are wanted in the surgeon’s tent.’

  Robert suddenly realised he had not seen Philip since that morning. He hurried to the surgeon’s tent, his nostrils tightening at its smell of blood and shit from injured and dying men mingling with the noxious fumes of potions. It was dark inside, only a few lamps swinging from the poles holding up the roof. Beneath one of these stood a rickety table and upon it, Philip lay, propped against a soldier who still wore his bloody and battered armour. Philip screamed as the surgeon’s probe scraped against his bone, the cry ending in a whimper as he tried to stifle his cry.

  Robert staggered forward, shocked and sickened by the sight. ‘Phil, what-’

  ‘God Almighty,’ Philip cursed, the blasphemy sounding odd in his mouth. He screwed up his face as another bolt of pain seared through his body and he snorted, spittle flying from his mouth to sliver down his front.

  ‘A bullet in the leg,’ the surgeon explained, pointing at Philip’s left thigh, where the flesh was horribly torn. Bright red blood ran down to the table’s surface, the skin at the edges of the wound black with thick, dark blood. White bone showed through the redness.

  Robert stared at the wound. ‘Where was your armour?’

  ‘I didn’t put it on. It slowed me down.’

  ‘You foolish boy. Will it mend?’ he asked the surgeon.

  ‘I cannot say, my lord,’ the surgeon said. ‘Only time will tel
l.’

  ‘You cannot say?’ Robert repeated incredulously. ‘You will say, damn you, or I shall run you through where you stand.’ Robert pulled his sword from its scabbard and pointed it against the surgeon’s chest.

  ‘Uncle,’ Philip’s shaking hand pushed away the point of the sword. ‘You do me no good by killing my doctor. He is a good man. He will do what he can.’

  ‘He better,’ Robert growled, sheathing his sword. ‘This is my nephew,’ he said to the surgeon, ‘more, he is my heir, and my son. You will take care of him.’

  The surgeon nodded uneasily.

  ‘Leave me, Uncle,’ Philip tried to smile. ‘You must be needed elsewhere. I think I could sleep for a while, if this fellow will only aid me by removing the bullet. Believe me, Uncle, I will be here when you come again.’

  Philip’s wound did not heal. Some two weeks passed, and Philip appeared to be improving, but one morning, he had lifted his bedclothes a little, and the smell of putrefaction greeted his nostrils. Gangrene had set in, for which there was no cure, save for the amputation of the limb, but the surgeon shook his head and said it was too late even for that.

  So Philip, the hope of many, so beloved, so accomplished, died and with him, Robert’s dreams of victory. He was sick of the Netherlands. He wanted to go home.

  29

  Hampton Court Palace, Surrey, October 1587

  Elizabeth tapped her foot impatiently whilst the ambassador before her twittered on. She had no idea what he was talking about, for she had stopped listening about ten minutes before, when Hatton had leant over her shoulder and whispered in her ear that Robert had arrived at the palace.