Robert had placed Chartley on the itinerary for her Summer Progress, with the explanation that, first of all, to be so close to her cousin’s home and not pay her a visit would be most unseemly; and secondly, with the Earl of Essex off fighting the Irish on her behalf, paying a courtesy visit to his wife was the courtly thing to do. But she still entertained her suspicions where Robert and Lettice were concerned.
She thanked St. Michael and all his Angels that her actual time with Lettice would be brief once the court departed for London; for after a day or so, she would be on her way to Dover. A meeting with the enigmatic Alençon was a condition of their continued marriage negotiations, and finally, it had been arranged that they were to meet in secret at Dover. It was true that such a meeting between them had been mooted many times; the duc was to come to England in secret, or they were to meet on the isle of Jersey; but none of these schemes had ever come to fruition. But now the arrangements had been made, and to Dover she would go to await the French prince’s arrival. She trembled with a delicious trepidation every time she thought about it. What would he think of her? What would she think of him?
Certainly there were other considerations; the men of the Council were divided down the middle on the whole issue of her marriage to the heir of the king of France. Walsingham was adamant in favor of a French alliance, which surprised many, but not her; she knew that despite her Good Moor’s horrific experience in France at the time of the great massacre, he was first a politician, with only the good of queen and realm at heart. As a staunch Reformer, he had an inbred hatred of Spain and a deadly fear of the Inquisition; had she given him his head, he would have pursued a pre-emptive strike against the King of Spain.
It was the same ancient dilemma; whom to ally England’s fortunes with, France or Spain? Neither was ideal, but at least France lacked that formidable specter, the Inquisition. Trade treaties with Philip were all well and good, they were vital, but Walsingham always stopped short of recommending full alliance with Spain.
In addition to Walsingham, Cecil was for the match, as was her own kinsman, the Earl of Sussex; but Knollys was against it, as were Robert and Christopher. Both were jealous of her; neither wished her to marry. Robert had railed and stormed that such a runt as Alençon was not a fit match for such a one as herself.
Poor Christopher had cried when informed of her intention.
And the Queen Mother was certainly enthusiastic! Catherine de’ Medici had been scheming for years to obtain the crown of England for one of her sons.
She had even visited Dr. Dee at Mortlake earlier in the year, long before she received Alençon’s first missive, asking his advice about marriage at her age. He summoned forth all his powers to provide her with an answer; he looked into mysterious bowls of liquid, gazed at his crystal, bade her cut cards; all had vouchsafed the same enigmatic answer. Marriage for her was auspicious, desirable; but beyond that he could not see.
And then out of the blue, Alençon’s letter had appeared. The auguries were all positive; and so to Dover, and to her destiny, she would go.
And did she not deserve a pleasant season of her own? It had been a difficult year. It had started off with Bess and Margaret in the Tower. After all, one could hardly hold such an innocent as Elizabeth Cavendish responsible for the situation. But Charles Stuart most certainly should have had known better. She was reluctant still to tear the young couple apart, especially with Elizabeth’s time almost upon her, and so Margaret’s freedom was forfeit for her son’s. Margaret still languished in the Tower on Charles’ behalf, but by all accounts she was still completely apathetic to her state. But despite a yeoman’s effort, Walsingham had been able to turn up no shred of evidence against Bess; she had been released from the Tower and was on her way back north before the snow that heralded her arrival had melted.
But this was trivial compared to the religious situation. As she feared, the radical Protestants were causing no end of trouble in the realm, and this had been exacerbated in May with the death of Matthew Parker, the Archbishop of Canterbury. For sixteen years, ever since she ascended the throne, he had been by her side, helping to maintain that delicate balance between the Anglican Church and the Catholics she tolerated in her midst. But he was gone and in his place was Edmund Grindal, a radical so strict that she was beginning to have doubts that he was suited for the high office of Archbishop of Canterbury. She wanted him to suppress the prayer meetings which had come into vogue amongst the Puritan clergy; she wanted him to discourage preaching by lay persons. But he would not, and a great feud between them ensued, culminating in exactly that which she had feared not so long ago; that she would be forced to execute radical Protestants who openly defied church law as it stood in England.
It was a bitter day when the first burnings in seventeen years had taken place at Tyburn. It could have been worse, she supposed; of the twenty-five who had been arrested and brought to trial for offenses against the Anglican Church, five had recanted, fifteen had been deported, and of the five condemned, only two had been burnt. But their deaths, by all accounts, had been horrible, and she deplored that such measures were necessary. But the people, who had criticized her sister for similar acts, seemed to approve wholeheartedly of the harsh treatment meted out to these fellow Protestants who judged the Anglican faith to be simply a watered down form of popery. Still, the whole thing smacked of Mary’s disastrous reign and she wanted no part of it.
The cavalcade crested a rise and as they reached the top and started their way down the gentle slope on the other side, all of Chartley lay before them as if it were an elaborate counterpane. This was the last royal obligation she must fulfil before going on her way to meet, at last, the man she hoped to marry. The thought never failed to give her a thrill; she had been, for years, in love with Robert; but now she was in love with love. A fleeting picture of Charles Stuart drying his wife’s tears that day at Westminster flitted through her mind. Would Alençon be the sort of man who would dry a wife’s tears? She would soon know, and knowing, was prepared at long last to step into the unknown realm where a man and woman were one.
Chartley, Essex, August 1575
At the bottom of the hill there was a bend in the tree-lined road that obscured the manor house. Elizabeth walked her palfrey at a sedate pace behind her heralds and the courtiers who led the royal procession through the warm summer afternoon. A gentle breeze arose, and it sighed through the trees; the swaying branches tossed their leaves haphazardly, dappling the sparkling sunlight and making it play on her upturned face. It was odd, but every beautiful thing she saw of late seemed to whisper one name; Alençon. All seemed right with the world. She pressed her hand to her bodice to feel the stiffness there of his latest letter. Soon, she thought. Soon.
The bend rounded, the cavalcade came out onto a wide gravel drive. The manor house sat like a stately jewel in the midst of green gardens and splashing fountains. The great door swung open, and there stood Robert, who had gone ahead a day early to ensure that all was in readiness for her arrival. Next to him stood Lettice, with that perpetually smug, self-satisfied smirk on her face. It was as if she and Robert were the lord and lady of the manor, come out to greet their guests. The thought irritated her and she tried to put it away, but it would not budge from her mind. Why had Robert been so adamant that he must come ahead to Chartley? He had done so at no other of their destinations. Suddenly it all became clear. She was right about Robert and Lettice. With Lord Essex gone to Ireland, it was too good an opportunity to miss. And so under cover of his task of managing the Progress, he had come to visit his paramour! She had been patient and understanding about Douglass. She refused to be so about Lettice!
But schooled in the fine art of dissimulation, she was able to go through the motions of the royal welcome laid out for her. She was seething with suppressed anger, but patiently she sat her palfrey and listened to the lisping recitations of Lettice’s children, who were dressed like angels, to celebrate the semi-divinity of the now much-belove
d Queen of England; a queen who had certainly proven her mettle these nearly seventeen years! Had it been so long, then?
Finally in her rooms, bathed, scented, perfumed and dressed in her finest gown and jewels for the occasion of the royal banquet to be afforded her by her cousin, the Countess of Essex, she summoned Robert to her.
“How now,” she said upon his arrival. “I see that you have put things in good order here.”
Ever the courtier even after all these years, Robert bowed and took the royal hand, which she had extended to be kissed in the usual manner. As his lips brushed her skin, she was astounded to realize that for the first time in her life, the sensation of it did not send an exciting thrill up her spine; but rather she experienced a decided recoil. The hand that held hers had caressed Douglass in ecstasy…and still did! That hand had held their child. That hand had made love to Lettice!
Abruptly, she withdrew her hand as though it had closed down upon some loathsome creature. “You shall not touch me!” she cried.
Robert, taken aback, his mouth a round “o” of astonishment, obeyed the habit of a lifetime; one obeyed instantly a demand from the queen, no matter how surprised or puzzled one might be. Still, he was a favorite, and had earned the right to take certain liberties. Instant compliance he might evince, but he was well within his sphere to question; he had been known to do so truculently before the entire court with impunity, so there was naught to stop him from doing so in the privacy of the queen’s own chambers.
“Why?” he cried. “What have I done?”
Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed. “You tell me, sir,” she said enigmatically. “You tell me!”
The first icy stirrings of fear made themselves known in his gut. They had been so discreet, so careful. Had they been found out? If so, how had they been found out? What ought he to do? Should he bluster? Should he lie? What did she really know?
“I have no idea what you are talking about,” he said. Perhaps he should take the upper hand immediately…before she did! And every now and then he fancied that she sometimes tired of being the all-powerful queen, that she wished simply to be like other women and be told what to do by a man. He must be masterful. “God’s teeth, Elizabeth,” he said dryly. “Speak sense!”
She narrowed her eyes at him. Never was he so transparent than when he was blustering over some fib he had told. But this was no mere fib, no excusable white lie; if what she suspected were true, this was blatant betrayal, and an attempt to cover it up. But she had no proof; she had only her intuition and her usually unerring judgment. Should she bluff? Should she bluster? How far could he be pushed?
“I?” she asked. “I, talk sense? Let us see what sense you make of courting my cousin!”
He suddenly experienced the odd sensation of his gut awash in water, cold from the well; so icy cold. He was so shaken that a violent shudder wracked his body from his neck to the tips of his fingers and toes. Elizabeth suspicious was almost as bad as Elizabeth with undeniable proof of his second infidelity; if one did not count the occasional court conquest and the odd serving maid. But those women were of no significance to him. Before him now stood a semi-divine being, a true goddess. This was the queen, in all her glory. An appeal to vanity, perhaps? And combine that tactic with a return to subservience…
“Your Gracious Majesty,” he said, with something in his expression of humor, tinged with barely concealed impatience, “we have been through this before. I am not courting Lettice.”
“Aye,” she cried. “Aye, I know it well; for what need of the chase, sir, after the doe has been brought down?” The verbalization of the accusation acted like a release valve. “I have no need of any come to prattle and tattle to see what is before mine own eyes, and as clear as the day that follows the night!”
Robert narrowed his eyes. “Am I to be constantly brought to account on nothing more substantial that your own jealous fancies?” he asked coldly. If she had anything to offer, she would offer it now. Take the upper hand again!
“Forsooth,” he said as calmly as if he had been discussing the weather, “I hope this is not going to become a habit. The Countess of Essex is both Your Grace’s cousin and a loyal subject. Your suspicions of her are unfair, unfounded and, I would stake much on it, without warrant.”
Elizabeth pursed her lips. It was true, she had no proof. And yet she knew, as surely as she knew the backs of her own hands and the shapes of her fingernails, that he was lying. And if he were, then she was right back to the agony she had suffered at her thoughts of Douglass. To go through that now, again, was not to be borne.
Robert weighed his options. There was nothing for it but to back down. He and Lettice would be patient; they would be more careful. Perhaps it was Lettice herself who was to blame, albeit unwittingly; she positively emanated the sexuality that had drawn him to her. Even had they not been indulging in an intimate affair, she would have sent warning signals out to other females. The very air around her vibrated. This one plays to win, her swagger said. Here is one who fights to the death. Cross her at your peril. But a queen…especially a virgin one…could not play the game at all. Here was trumps; here was his ace.
“You cannot move me,” he said quietly. “I will not be bullied, Madam, not even by a queen.”
The change in her demeanor was immediate and quite shocking to see; her face turned white as the blood drained from it, her pupils dilated, flooding her golden eyes, turning them into great black pools. Nothing affected her quite so much as assaults on her self-image. In her own mind she was no bully; she was a kind and loving sovereign who had the care of her people to her account, and a genuine desire to be of service to them. But there was also the girl who had grown up in fear for her very existence, the woman whose word had been law in England these seventeen years. And in the discharge of those responsibilities, had been known to bully many in her time. Had she, indeed, bullied Robert? The thoughts that had visited her that night in Greenwich when she found out about Douglass flitted through her mind once more. Why should a similar situation with Lettice be so different? There almost certainly had been others…many of them…over the years.
The answer slipped into her mind so subtly that she almost missed the significance of the thought on which it was borne. She must do what all women…or at least the canny ones…had done from time immemorial. She must ignore, she must turn away, she must somehow find a way to not mind; she must forgive. For only then should she truly win his affection, if not his fidelity.
She smiled, and the blood suffused her pale skin with delicate color. Her eyes looked like a cat’s once more, and her whole demeanor changed with the suddenness of an east wind. “Well,” she said. “Let us not allow this to spoil our holiday.”
It was the closest to an apology that he would ever get from her; and heaven knew he did not deserve one. He was as guilty as the sin he was committing. But what was a man to do? Elizabeth would have been flattered, and Lettice furious, if they knew that his attraction to Lettice was in her remarkable resemblance to her royal cousin. They had the same red hair and porcelain complexion. Lettice was more auburn, and Elizabeth was a head taller, but still, they could have been sisters. At night, in the candlelight, he could pretend that Lettice was Elizabeth. Their personalities were even similar; both had a caustic wit and a sharp tongue. But it was these very traits that attracted him to both women.
They regarded each other in silence. Both knew that they had somehow reached common ground, and thanked God for it. No questions would be asked from now on. What would be the point?
Robert knew a brief moment of regret that he would never have her; Elizabeth felt a similar emotion. But even as these feelings were felt, each knew a moment of outward looking. Robert, even in the midst of the danger he was in whenever Elizabeth seemed about to turn on him, felt a thrill as he thought about the night he had just spent in Lettice’s bed.
Elizabeth lifted a hand to her breast and felt once again the stiff vellum of Alençon’s letter. Up until now
there had been no compensating situation for her, unless one counted poor Christopher; Robert was jealous of Hatton but he knew in his heart that Hatton was no threat, for the simple reason that neither of them could ever have the queen. But Alençon could…and from his letters, could be judged eager for the match. Yes, now she had Alençon.
She lifted her eyes to Robert’s. It was time to go. She would make her grand entrance into the Countess’s hall on Robert’s arm. He was hers in a way he could never belong to Lettice. And that was her trump card.
Chatsworth, Derbyshire, September 1575
The demanding wail of a baby’s cry echoed throughout the vast spaces at Chatsworth. No, that was not quite accurate, thought Bess; it was two babies crying. That was as well, then. A crying child demonstrated both lusty lungs and the will to live. Her days were taken up now with the children of her daughters; for while Elizabeth had given birth to a disappointing girl, her younger daughter, Lady Mary, had given birth to a lusty boy.
She had made certain that she provided well for her children by her previous marriage; she had only accepted Shrewsbury’s proposal of matrimony, as her fourth husband, on the condition that two of his children were married to two of hers. Titles, money and lands must be kept in the family! Bess's youngest daughter, the Lady Mary Cavendish, was given in marriage to Shrewsbury's eldest son, Gilbert; while Bess's son, Sir Henry Cavendish, married Shrewsbury's daughter, Lady Grace Talbot. Such an arrangement guaranteed that Lady Mary, therefore, would one day follow her mother as Countess of Shrewsbury, and the son she had just borne would someday be earl. It was all very satisfactory. And who had wrought such a pleasing outcome? Bess of Hardwick, the Countess of Shrewsbury.
The Countess of Shrewsbury. Yes, she was that. She enjoyed her title and the prestige it gave her. Only she herself knew that now, her life was an empty shell. Even the pleasure of abiding once again at dear Chatsworth had not afforded her the usual feelings of triumph and accomplishment she experienced whilst there. It was all George’s fault! And Mary of Scotland’s! It had been an unpropitious day that had seen the Queen of England decide that the Earl of Shrewsbury was to be the gaoler of the Queen of Scots. Life had never been the same since that dreadful mandate had been visited upon them. The unthinkable was almost inevitable; but when it finally came about, it happened in a completely unexpected way.
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