by Laura Dowers
Robert opened a bleary eye. The coach door opened and Pepper stepped down, holding out a helping hand. Lettice waited for him at the door, looking bright and younger than her forty six years. Robert supposed that was the effect of fornicating nightly with Christopher Blount, his Gentleman of the Horse. Robert knew he should care more, run the young scamp through with his sword. Ten, perhaps even five years ago he would have done, but not now. Now he didn’t care, had not the energy to care, and in a perverse way, it even gave him a sense of relief. If Lettice was being serviced regularly by Blount, she would not pester him in bed.
‘My dear,’ he greeted her with a weak smile.
‘Robert, you look ill. Are you sure this trip to Buxton is good for you?’ She took him by the arm and led him into the hall. ‘Perhaps you should just rest here?’
He walked away from her into the main chamber, and sank heavily into a cushioned chair. ‘If you do not wish to accompany me, Lettice-’
‘You are my husband, and I go where you go. If you allow me to, that is,’ she added peevishly, settling herself into a chair opposite.
‘I just thought you may have reason to want to stay here, that is all.’
‘What reason could I have?’ she asked sharply, wondering what he knew.
He sighed and said, ‘We leave in the morning. I trust I can leave all the packing to you, my dear. You know what I want to take. I am going to bed.’
Lettice kicked the bedclothes back, for the night had turned very warm. ‘I suppose you are writing to her.’
‘Yes.’ Robert sat at a small table in the bay window. It was a light evening, and with the aid of a candle, he could just see well enough to write by. He dipped his quill in the ink and continued his letter to Elizabeth.
‘You only left her three days ago.’
‘She wants to know how I am, Lettice.’
Lettice sighed. She had grown tired of being jealous of the queen. She still loved Robert, but since their son had died, a part of that love for him had died as well. She knew it was irrational, but some corner of her mind blamed him for their son’s death. If Robert had spent more time with them and less with the queen, maybe their boy would be alive. She shook away the thought, knowing that her eyes would fill with tears if she permitted herself to think of her dead son.
‘Come to bed, Rob,’ she called gently. ‘Leave that damned letter to the morning.’
‘I’ve finished anyway.’ He threw down his quill and snuffed out the candle. He settled himself in the enormous bed gratefully and Lettice curled herself around him.
‘Is that better?’ she asked.
He grunted. ‘Not really, Lettice, I feel like I’m wearing down.’
35
Cornbury, Oxfordshire, September 1588
‘Quick,’ Lettice shouted to the gaping servants as she clambered from the coach. ‘My husband needs to be taken to his bed at once. You,’ she pointed at a young girl, ‘go to the village. Order the physician to attend my husband at once. Tell him he is grievously ill.’
Robert cried out in pain as he stumbled to the front door of the lodge. Several pairs of hands gripped his arms and guided him towards the hall. A chair was placed beneath him and he fell into it, clutching at his burning stomach. He heard Lettice barking orders to the servants, then felt himself lifted into the air. Four men had taken hold of the chair and were carrying him up the stairs to his bedchamber.
He must have passed out, for he did not remember being put to bed, yet when he opened his eyes, he was flat on his back with the bedclothes pulled up to his chin. He licked his dry lips.
‘Lettice?’ he whispered, and from the window, a black shape moved to the side of the bed.
‘I’m here,’ she said gently, leaning over to stroke his brow.
‘The pain-’
‘I know, dearest. The doctor is here. He wants to give you something for the pain.’
‘My lady,’ the surgeon steered Lettice away from the bedside, ‘there is nothing more I can do.’
‘Nothing?’
‘The earl is dying. It’s only a matter of time.’
Lettice looked over the doctor’s shoulder, at her husband who was in so much pain, dying before her very eyes. Even now, William Haynes, one of Robert’s pages, leant over his master and attempted to place a cup of the doctor’s medicine to his lips, but with what little energy Robert had, he swept William’s hand aside. William came over to Lettice.
‘My lady,’ he said softly, ‘he refuses the medicine. Perhaps you should try?’
Lettice suddenly gripped the doctor’s wrist. ‘There is something you could do. Your medicine. A larger dose, that would…that would-’
‘My lady,’ the doctor interrupted, horrified. ‘I could not do that.’
‘God rot you,’ Lettice snarled. ‘My husband is in agony and you yourself say that he is dying, that you can do no more for him. So release him. Let him die, I beg you.’
‘No, my lady. For the sake of my immortal soul, I cannot do as you ask.’
Robert slipped in and out of consciousness. When he was awake, he thought of Lettice. He knew she would survive without him. Knew it and was not upset. But then he thought of Elizabeth and was glad that at least someone would mourn him. How would she bear the loss of him? They had been together for more years than some people were married. They had had their arguments, their jealousies, and their separate betrayals. Yet they had stayed together, and loved. What was a marriage if it was not that?
He also thought of his family; not Lettice, not his step-family, but that family he had lost so many years before. Of his mother, of his brothers, but most especially of his father. He had tried to live his life in a way that would have made his father proud, but he knew he had failed. He had tried for a crown and Elizabeth and Amy’s death had defeated him; he had tried to become a great soldier, but pride had defeated him; he had tried to continue the Dudley line and death had defeated him. The room darkened still more, and the voices grew fainter.
Robert Dudley closed his weary eyes, and died.
36
Whitehall Palace, London, September 1588
Cecil limped along the Long Gallery, wincing with each step, his gouty left foot a throbbing agony. As he passed the large windows, he looked out into the gardens of the palace and saw courtiers in an unusual state of happiness. He wished he was young enough to feel the same for he knew the jubilation could not last the month. Or at least, he hoped not. He understood the need to celebrate; a little island had not only withstood, but fought off, the might of Spain and that didn’t happen every day. But the expense! The costs had being going around his head all night and he wondered at the queen’s willingness to spend so much. But then, she was happy, and he was pleased to see her so.
He heard feet running up behind him and he turned stiffly.
‘My lord.’ One of his pages was holding out a letter to him. ‘One of Lord Leicester’s men just delivered this.’
Cecil took the letter and tried to ease his thumb under the sealed flap, but he was hampered by his long walking stick. He gave the letter back to the boy, and told him to break the seal on the letter. ‘Read it, boy.’
The boy read the contents of the letter aloud and then looked up at his master.
Cecil’s face had turned grey. He stared out of the window, watching the courtiers as they laughed. ‘He gives with one hand, and takes with the other,’ he muttered.
‘Cecil,’ Elizabeth halloed with a wide smile as the chamber doors opened. ‘Sir Francis here was just telling me how the Irish are taking care of the Spaniards.’
Cecil gave a curt nod to the stocky Drake. ‘Indeed, madam. You must tell me later, Sir Francis.’
Elizabeth grinned, curling herself into a chair. ‘I don’t mind hearing the story again.’
‘I will hear it later,’ Cecil said firmly. ‘Sir Francis, would you mind leaving us?’
‘Is something wrong, Cecil?’ Elizabeth frowned, when Drake had gone.
�
�Yes, madam, something is indeed wrong.’ He paused, uncertain how to frame his next sentence. ‘I have received news from the Countess of Leicester.’
‘What news do I want to hear from that woman?’
‘Madam,’ he said with a deep sigh, ‘the Earl of Leicester has died.’
Elizabeth stared at him. His heart quickened as her amber eyes widened and darkened to brown. Her throat with its sagging skin, tightened. She rose slowly, her hands gripping the pommels of the chair. ‘Robin …dead?’
‘He died at Cornbury, on his way to take the waters at Buxton.’
‘He wasn’t well when he left,’ she said falteringly. ‘That’s it,’ she pointed a shaking finger at him. ‘Your message got it wrong. He’s not dead, he’s ill. He will be well again.’
‘Madam, there has been no mistake. The countess herself has written this letter.
‘You cannot trust that woman,’ Elizabeth shrieked. ‘She lies, she always lies. Look,’ she said suddenly, passing through the open doorway that led to her bedchamber, ‘look at this.’ She snatched up a letter from a table by the window. She thrust it into his hand and he saw the image on the broken seal, the Bear and Ragged Staff, the Earl of Leicester’s emblem. ‘He wrote to me not a week ago.’
‘He died three days ago, madam. I do not lie to you.’
‘He can’t be,’ she cried, shaking her head. ‘He wouldn’t leave me.’
‘He would never have done so willingly.’
Elizabeth looked at him, her face contorting as her tears fell. He smiled sympathetically. Then she sprang at him. Her thin, bony hands pushed him backwards. He almost fell as she forced him from the room. She yanked the doors shut and he heard the key turning in the lock. Then he heard a thud against the wood, a sliding sound, sobbing.
He knocked lightly, pressing his ear to the door. ‘Your Majesty?’
Table of Contents
Copyright
Part OneThe Dutiful Son
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
Part TwoThe Married Man
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
Part 3Sacrifices
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
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14
15
16
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18
19
20
21
22
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26
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36
37
38
39
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54
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56
Part FourHis Own Man
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7
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19
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36
