by Jean Plaidy
She listened to the singing of the song which told her of her subjects’ wishes:
“…our hope is sure
That into error’s place thou wilt the truth restore…”
And as she listened she held the Bible against her breast and raised her eyes; and when the people cheered and called blessings on her, she cried: “Be ye assured I will stand your good Queen!”
And so she went to Whitehall; and the next day to the Abbey for the crowning. The dream had come true. Hers was the anointing; in her hands were placed the orb and the scepter; and the voices echoed about her: “Yea, yea, yea. God save Queen Elizabeth!”
There was one duty which, Elizabeth was assured by her councillors, she must not evade. The country would not be completely happy until there was a royal nursery at the palace and the son of Elizabeth was born.
“Marry!” was the urgent advice. “And the sooner the better.”
In spite of a coquettishly expressed love of the virgin state, Elizabeth was by no means unwilling to consider suitors; and as there was no better partie in the world than the Queen of England, there were many to compete for her hand.
In the meantime she was making her future policy clearer.
She had discreetly declared to the Protestant countries her desire to return England to the Reformed Faith; and at the same time, as she had no desire to offend France and Spain, she let it be known that she intended to allow her subjects freedom of thought in religious matters.
The Pope was enraged. He declared that he was unable to understand what right a woman, who had been born out of wedlock, had to the throne; and furthermore, in his opinion, Mary Queen of Scots was the rightful heir. He did not understand how this new doctrine of liberty of conscience could be successful. He feared its consequences.
The Queen, secure in her own country, could snap her fingers at the Pope; she felt that was what most of her subjects wished her to do. She recalled her ambassador from Rome, but he, threatened with excommunication if he obeyed her, stayed where he was. The Queen was indifferent. England was with her; so what did she care for the rest of the world? The Catholic peers had kissed her cheek and sworn to give her their allegiance. She had the common people firmly behind her, for the brief return to Rome under Mary, which had brought with it misery and persecution, seemed to them an evil thing.
She continued magnanimous toward her old enemies; and they, finding they had nothing to fear from her, as she had guessed they would be, were ready to serve her.
She had laughed at their terrors. “We are of the nature of a lion,” she said. “We cannot descend to the destruction of mice.”
The country had emerged from the reign of Mary in a poor condition; but hopes were high under the new young Queen. Now all looked confidently to her to marry; it was believed by all her statesmen that, although she had shown some wisdom, being a woman, she needed a firm masculine hand to help her rule.
That made Elizabeth smile. She intended to show them that a lioness was as fitted as a lion to defend her own. But that would come. In such matters she must never abandon her caution.
Her subtlety soon began to surprise those about her; and none realized this more fully than the Spanish ambassador, the Count of Feria. The hopes of Feria rested on the Catholic peers who, he was certain, had gone over to Elizabeth’s side only for expediency’s sake. He advised his master that these men could easily be won to the service of Spain, providing the bribes which were offered them were attractive enough. Philip saw reason in this, and was prepared to spend a great deal of Spanish money on his Catholic friends in England.
The Count considered the most likely “pensioner” to be Lord William Howard, a Catholic, whom the Queen had made her Chamberlain; and he quickly discovered that Howard was amenable to bribes. But before the first payment was made Howard appeared reluctant to accept the money. Feria was disconsolate; he had hoped for much from the Chamberlain. Then to the Count’s consternation, a few days after Howard had refused to accept the bribe, he came to Feria and told him: “I could not accept your magnificent offer until I knew the Queen’s pleasure.” Feria was astounded; he had naturally discussed the matter of payment to Howard with the utmost delicacy, but it had never occurred to him that the man had not clearly understood for what purposes the money was to be paid. Then came the most astonishing revelation. “I have now the Queen’s consent to accept the money and shall be glad if you will send me the first payment.”
Philip and Feria were exasperated beyond endurance. They had learned yet another lesson regarding the sharp wits of the Queen.
Nor did Elizabeth allow the matter to rest there. She blithely told Feria that she was delighted to hear of his generosity. She added coyly: “I hope his Most Catholic Majesty will not be offended if I employ some of the servants he has here among my courtiers.”
He wrote to his master that he would go no further in this matter of bribes. He had hoped to lure Cecil, Bacon, Robert Dudley, and Parry to work for Spain. Cecil, however, was possessed of a large fortune and would not be interested in money; Bacon was his close friend and a brother-in-law of Cecil’s, for they had each married a daughter of Sir Anthony Cooke—two very learned women and tiresome bluestockings; there was not much hope in that direction. Thomas Parry, who had long been her cofferer and whom she had now knighted, might be amenable. His real name was Vaughan, but because his father’s name was Harry and he came from Wales he had been called, after the fashion there, Thomas ap Harry, which had become Parry. This man was a gossip, but so attached to the Queen was he that Feria would not hasten to approach him with offers of money. As for Lord Robert Dudley—that handsome young man about the Queen’s own age—Elizabeth appeared to dote on him, and indeed her conduct was giving rise to rumors. In the opinion of the Spanish ambassador it was not easy to know who could be trusted to work for Spain.
The Queen suddenly put an end to such trains of thought by declaring that there must be an end to all “pensions” from Spain.
She was now ready to consider her suitors, a project which gave her much pleasure.
The first and most important was her brother-in-law, Philip, the King of Spain himself.
How she enjoyed herself, alternately gay and serious, tormenting the solemn Feria, refusing to see him, then having him sit beside her and making much of him. She did not think, she declared, that such a marriage would be successful; she was reminded again and again of all her father had suffered when he went through a form of marriage with his brother’s widow.
Feria assured her that the Pope would give his dispensation. She pointed out that the Pope had shown himself to be no friend of hers. The Pope, Feria said coldly, could be persuaded by his master; and if the marriage took place Elizabeth would have no need to fear Papal enmity.
That was true, she admitted; but as she was in no fear of the Pope whatsoever, she had little to gain in that direction.
There were other suitors. There were Eric of Sweden and Archduke Charles, son of Emperor Ferdinand. It gave her great pleasure to consider each and discuss them in turn, to blow hot and cold, to raise objections and then pretend to be favorably inclined. There were many conferences and entertainments to honor the ambassadors of her suitors; but none of the courtships progressed.
She told the ambassadors that she could not forget the unpopularity of her sister’s marriage. The English, she believed, would wish to see their Queen married to an English husband.
Such statements set wild hopes soaring in the minds of certain noblemen. There was the Earl of Arundel, who had offered his hand to Elizabeth before she was Queen. Elizabeth pretended to consider him—not only because she was delighted with any man who declared his wish to marry her, but mainly because she wished for the support of all men of influence at this stage of her reign.
Another was Sir William Pickering; he was forty-three, but handsome, and it was said that he had lived merrily. The Queen showed special favor to such as Pickering, and as, it was remembered, from the days of his youth he ha
d been very successful with women, a match between himself and the Queen, although unlikely, was not impossible.
There were many quarrels between Pickering and Arundel; and the Court amused itself by laying bets on their chances.
Cecil regarded all this frivolity without a great deal of tolerance. He was against the matches with Spain, Austria, and Sweden, favoring alliance with the Earl of Arran who had been chosen for Elizabeth in her childhood. Such an alliance, Cecil declared, would unite England and Scotland and much trouble between those two countries might thereby be avoided.
Elizabeth listened to her ministers, went on discussing matrimony, studied the pictures of her suitors—and looked with longing eyes at her Master of Horse.
Cecil would remonstrate with her. He was not a man to mince his words, and often aroused her anger; but she was clever enough to appreciate him, and was always prepared to give him her ready smile after a difference between them; and what was even more important, she invariably took his advice.
She gave as much attention to matters of feminine vanity as to state affairs, yet the latter did not suffer for that.
While she was considering an answer to Philip of Spain, her silk woman, Mistress Montague, brought her a New Year’s present—a pair of knit silk stockings; and these stockings seemed to delight her far more than a brilliant marriage with His Most Catholic Majesty could have done.
She would lift her skirts to show them to her women. Mistress Montague proudly declared that, seeing Her Majesty looked so well in the stockings, she would without delay set about making more.
“Indeed, I like them!” cried the Queen. “There shall be no more cloth stockings for me. I shall wear only silk.”
Thus, when Cecil came to talk of state affairs, was she occupied with her silk woman. And while she amused herself with her suitors, her fine clothes, and her great position, she kept one man beside her. Her delight in him did not diminish; in fact, it grew so great that it became apparent to all.
The Queen, so quick in other matters, was slow to realize this. Cecil, that blunt and fearless man, brought it home to her on the occasion of the misalliance of the Duchess of Suffolk with an equerry in her service.
The Queen laughed aloud when she heard the story. “So she has married her horsekeeper, that proud Madam!”
Cecil answered: “Yes, Madam; it is true that she has married her horsekeeper, but she might retort that Your Majesty wishes you could do the same!”
The Queen stared at her minister.
Now she knew. She had betrayed her passion for Robert.
There was little opportunity for seeing him alone, and while this did not disturb her greatly—for it seemed enough to her that she often had him in her presence and could give him soft looks and receive passionate and daring ones from him—he was by no means satisfied. He would show his dissatisfaction by being coldly deferential, by being attentive to others; he would absent himself from her apartments now and then; and while he continued to perform his duties with care, she could not reprove him for this. She loved him for his independence—she could not tolerate meekness in men—yet in his case it distressed her.
She told Kat when they were alone together that he must be brought to her with as little ceremony as possible.
“You would have me bring him here alone…to your apartment!”
“Why not? Why not?”
“Dearest Majesty, it could not be kept secret.”
“You mean you could not keep it a secret.”
“Nay! I would rather die than divulge it.”
“If it is divulged, I shall blame you, Kat.”
“Sweetest Majesty, have a care. He is a bold man.”
“I know it,” said Elizabeth smiling. “But do not forget that if I am a Queen, I am also a woman who knows how to take care of herself.”
“He’s no ordinary man.”
“Am I an ordinary woman?”
“Nay! That is why I fear. You both tower above all others.”
“Go and bring him to me, Kat.”
“Dearest, is it wise…?”
“Go, I say, and do not meddle, woman.”
So Kat brought him to her and left them together. Kat was right when she had said he was bold. The Queen held out her hand for him to kiss, but he would have none of that. He would have her know that he only tolerated ceremony for the sake of others. He would not kiss her hand but her mouth.
“Robert,” she protested breathlessly, “you forget…”
“I have remembered too long.”
“I did not send for you to do this.”
But her assumed reluctance was unavailing. He was too experienced, altogether too fascinating. He was, in fact, irresistible, and he knew it.
He lifted her in his arms and strode with her to the chair of state—that chair in which she alone should sit. There he sat, still holding her. Have done with queenship, he implied. You are a woman now. There has been too much teasing. It is finished.
She was excited. This was lèse-majesté; yet that was how she would have it, for she loved his boldness. She herself was weak with love. She wondered how she could stand out against him, as she must. This was a battle between them; never must she forget that. He wished to seduce the Queen that he might be the master; she wished to keep him desiring to seduce, that she might remain the mistress. It was a battle she knew well how to fight; she had fought it with Seymour and had come through victorious, and she had been but a girl then. But she knew that this battle would be the fiercest she had ever fought.
She laughed as she lay in his arms. “Have you forgotten, sir, that it is the Queen you hold? Have you no respect for the crown?”
“I have nothing…nothing but my love for Elizabeth. I care not if she be Queen or drab. She is mine, and I’ll wait no longer.”
“How dare you!” she cried; and in her voice was the trill of excitement, since his words pleased her more than any profession of loyalty could have done.
“How dare you torment me so?” was his answer.
“I?”
But there were kisses now—given and returned—and words were impossible.
At length he said: “I wonder I did not do this before them all.”
“Arundel would have run his sword through you. I should not have wished that to happen.”
“Arundel! Pickering! You demean yourself!”
“Yes, I demean myself…because you only are worthy to mate with me. At least that is what you think.”
“And you?”
“How could I think that, when you have a wife, and could have none but dishonorable intentions regarding me?”
“There is one thing I must know,” he said earnestly.
“You must know? You are very bold, Lord Robert.”
“And intend to be bolder.”
She shrieked with assumed dismay.
His lips were on her throat, and he said between kisses: “Would you marry me…if I were free to marry you?”
“Would I marry you?” she gasped. “You…you…the son of a traitor! You…a Dudley! Do you think the Queen could marry with such!”
“Yes, I do. Am I a fool? Am I blind? Elizabeth…nay, I’ll not call you Your Majesty. To me you are Elizabeth, the only woman in the world who will do for me…who maketh all others of no account so that they tire me and make me run from them to dream, alas, but to dream—of her who torments me and denies with words the love that shines from her eyes. You would marry me, would you not…would you not?”
She answered hesitatingly: “I…I do not know.”
“Is it because you do not know, that you will give no answers to these suitors of yours?”
“It might be.”
“Because you are in love with a man who cannot marry you since he has a wife already? I will have the truth. I demand the truth.”
She looked into his brilliant eyes and said: “I shall never forgive you for this. I have never been so treated…”
“You have never been loved as I love
you.”
“Am I so unattractive that you think no one has the least regard for me?”
“No one has ever loved you as I love you. You would marry me, would you not, if I were free?”
Looking into his face, marveling at his beauty, she told the truth: “I believe I should be greatly tempted to do so.”
She saw his triumph, and that sobered her a little; but she was still under the spell of his enchantment. She put her arms about his neck and stroked the soft curling hair, as she had longed to do so many times.
He said: “Mayhap one day we shall marry. Oh, happy day! And while we wait…”
She raised her eyebrows daring him to go on. She did not yet know how daring he could be.
“We could be lovers,” he said, “as surely we were meant to be.”
Now she sensed danger, and the Queen immediately took command. Her voice was suddenly colder. “You are a fool, Lord Robert.”
He was startled. He had become the subject once more.
She went on quickly: “If there were any hope of our marrying…”
He interrupted: “There is hope.”
Her sudden happiness could not be hidden; it shone from her eyes and she was the woman again.
“How so?”
“My wife is a sick woman. She cannot live long.”
“You…speak truth, Robert?”
“She suffers from a growth in the breast. It will prove fatal.”
“Robert…how long?”
“A year perhaps. You will wait, my love, my dearest Queen? A year…and you and I…together for the rest of our lives.”
“Why did you not tell me this before?” she demanded sharply.
“I dared not hope.”
“You…dared not! You would dare anything.”
He kissed her. “Only since I knew how you loved me.”
She would not allow the embrace to continue. He was too insistent, too clever, too practiced. He knew exactly how to play upon her feelings. The Queen must command the woman not to act like any village drab—or perhaps any normal woman in the hands of Lord Robert.
“It is true?” she asked.
