by Jean Plaidy
But she had to save him and herself.
“What now?” she said, as soon as they were alone. “What now, Robert?”
“She fell from the stairs,” he said. “It was an accident.”
She laughed mirthlessly. “An accident! At such a time!”
“That is what it seems. What it must seem.”
“Do you not see how foolish we have been, you and I? We have shown feelings to the world which we should have been wise to hide. Such an accident to the wife of an obscure courtier would have aroused no comment. But to your wife…at such a time…when the whole world knows of the love between us…Robert, no one will believe in this accident.”
“You are the Queen,” he said.
“Yes, yes. But there is one thing I have known all my life: A Queen or King must be loved and respected by the people. They murmur against me. They say lewd things. They say I am to bear your child. Now they will say that this had to be, that our child might be born in wedlock…the legitimate heir to the throne. And they will whisper about me. They will call me a lewd woman.”
He said: “Your father married six wives. Two of them lost their heads; two he put from him when he tired of them; one all but lost her head, and only his death, some say, saved her. You talk of this scandal. How can it compare with your father’s senary adventure in matrimony!”
“A Queen is not a King. A King may love where he will, but a Queen who is to bear the heir to the throne must be above reproach.”
He came to her and put his arms about her; and she was moved temporarily by his masculine charm.
“All will be well,” he said. “We shall come through this storm. And remember, there is nothing now to keep us apart.”
She was silent. She was not the woman whom he had known. She was older, wiser; the old habit of learning her lessons had not been lost. Thus she had been when she had stood before Lady Tyrwhit at the time they had beheaded Thomas Seymour. She had deceived them all then.
Never again must she allow herself to be overwhelmed by her love for a man. She must for evermore be Queen first, a woman second.
She must not forget that she was in danger now, and she must learn her lesson quickly. When she had extricated herself from the result of her folly, never must she err in that respect again.
“Robert,” she said, releasing herself from his arms, “there is only one thing to be done. I must put you under arrest until this matter is cleared up. It is the only way. Think of the future, my love, and do as I say. Go to Kew under arrest by orders of the Queen.”
He hesitated, but he was wise enough to see that the Queen was in control of the woman.
“You are right,” he said. “You must not be involved in this. Our mistake has been to show the world that we love each other. Once this has blown over…”
She nodded, and throwing herself into his arms, kissed him fiercely.
“Go now, my dearest. All will be well. No harm shall come to you. But we have to learn from the mistakes we have made. There must be no more. Her death has to be an accident. You and I must not even have wished it to happen. Because you are her husband you will, of necessity, be suspected; and the Queen’s orders are that you stay in your house at Kew…under arrest. Go now, and soon all will be well.”
“All will be well,” he said, returning her kisses with a fierceness which outstripped her own. “Soon you and I shall be husband and wife.”
“If all goes well,” said the Queen soberly.
This was the greatest scandal that had shocked and entertained the world since Elizabeth’s father had played out his tragic farce with six wives.
If justice were to be done, said the world, the Queen should take her place with her lover on trial for murder.
Robert was frantic. Confined to his house at Kew he was in desperate and urgent correspondence with his faithful servant and kinsman Thomas Blount, commanding him to sound opinion at Court and in the countryside, particularly in the region of Cumnor Place. Thomas Blount was to question the servants, bully them, browbeat them into admitting that Amy’s death had been an accident. He, Dudley, was still an influential man; he would get in touch with the foreman of the jury and see that the “right” verdict was declared. When he was King of England he would not forget those who had helped him to his place, any more than he would forget those who had tried to impede him.
Cecil had recovered his balance. He was the calm minister once more. He saw the country threatened with a crisis which could do much harm. Confidence in the Queen must be restored. He must remain her chief minister, for if he retired he might find himself in the Tower; besides, how could he bear to give up his ambition?
He was beside the Queen now, supporting her when she needed his support. She had the utmost confidence in him; and he was too good a minister to fail her.
He remembered that, in his agitation during a weak moment, he had spoken incautiously to the Spanish ambassador, and that his words would doubtless have been reported to Philip of Spain. What had he said? That he saw troubles ahead, that his mistress and her lover were planning the murder of Amy Dudley! That was a terrible mistake to have made, because he had said those words only a few hours before Amy had been found in Cumnor Place lying at the foot of a staircase with her neck broken. Could such a coincidence be accepted? It must be. The only way to keep the people loyal to the Queen was to have a verdict of accidental death brought in. The Queen might commit political murders, but she must not be implicated in the murder of a woman whose husband she wished to marry. That was something the country would not accept. Royal murder was permissible. But the charge of personal murder—murder for passion, love, lust, whatever the people called it—must be laughed to scorn.
This Queen’s whole future was at stake. There was Jane Grey’s sister, Catharine, who would find ready supporters. There was Mary Queen of Scots, who was now the Queen of France. Clearly if Elizabeth was to stay on the throne she must not be implicated in murder. Therefore there must have been no murder; for if murder had been committed, the Queen would seem as guilty as her lover.
Cecil accordingly decided that his course of action must be to laugh at the suggestion of murder.
This attitude would give the lie to the words the Spanish ambassador had already written to his master. Even Philip might doubt the veracity of de Quadra, if Cecil treated the scandal with scorn and contempt.
Cecil went ostentatiously to Kew to visit his dear friend Lord Robert Dudley, and to assure him of his belief in his innocence.
The Queen was pleased with Cecil; she knew that she and he could always rely upon each other.
But the country was demanding justice. Several preachers in various parts were asking that a full inquiry be made into the death of Lady Dudley, and grievous suspicions disposed of.
And all knew that in this there was not only a threat to Lord Robert, but to the Queen herself.
Thomas Blount worked assiduously in the service of his master.
He went to Cumnor Place with the express purpose of proving Amy’s death an accident.
He questioned Mistress Odingsells, Mistress Owen, and the Forsters. Mr. Forster told him that Amy seemed a little absent-minded on that fatal Sunday morning. It would not surprise him if she had fallen down as she was descending the stairs. But the Forsters were suspect, as any servants of Lord Robert’s at Cumnor Place must be; for if the task of murder had to be entrusted to one of them, it would be to a man in Forster’s position.
A jury, deciding that it dared not offend the man who might be King, and at the same time the Queen herself, would not bring in a verdict of murder; but this was not only a matter for a court jury; in this case the whole of England was the self-appointed judge and jury; and the whole of England could neither be bribed nor threatened.
It seemed strange and mysterious that Amy, who had always insisted on having people about her, should have tried to send the entire household to the Fair on that Sunday morning.
Blount was puzzled. He must
carefully question every person in the household in an endeavor to understand Amy’s strange action.
At length he came to Amy’s personal maid, the woman who, he had heard, was devoted to her mistress.
Pinto had lived in a daze since the tragedy.
It was all so clear to her. Someone—she suspected Forster—had been awaiting the opportunity; and it was her actions, her schemes which had given him what he sought.
She knew of the murmuring throughout the country. She knew that people were saying: “Robert Dudley is a murderer. His grandfather and his father died on the block. Let him die on the block, for he deserves death even as they did.”
What if he were to die for this? She could not call to a halt that procession of tableaux which haunted her. She thought of a hundred pictures from those two and a half years when he and she had lived under the same roof. Often she had watched him when he did not know he was watched. He had not noticed her except for one moment, and then it had been her apparent indifference to him that had so briefly attracted him.
Yet she knew that during the whole of her life she would never forget him.
One of the maids came to her and said that Master Blount wished to question her as he was questioning the whole household.
The maid’s face was alive with eagerness. She whispered: “He is trying to prove it was an accident. Lord Robert has sent him to do so. But…how can they prove that…and what will happen now to my lord?”
What would happen to him now?
Pinto was excited suddenly because she felt that there was within her a power to decide what should happen to him.
She could tell the truth; she could tell of the plan she had made with Amy. That would not help Lord Robert. But there was one explanation which was not incredible. No one would believe Amy’s death was due to an accident; but might they not believe in that one alternative to murder: suicide?
That would not endear Lord Robert to the people; he would still have his detractors; but at the same time a man who neglected his wife to serve his sovereign was not on that account a criminal.
She stood before Thomas Blount, who studied her intently. A personable creature of her kind, he thought; and one whose grief showed her to have had a real affection for the dead woman.
“Mistress Pinto, you loved your mistress dearly.”
“Yes, sir.”
“What do you think of her death? Was it an accident or was it caused through villainy?”
Pinto hesitated briefly. It seemed as though he were there beside her. He was made for distinction. She was making excuses for him. He had been tempted and, weakly, he had been unable to resist. It seemed to her that he was pleading for her help, he who had never asked her for anything. What woman had ever been able to resist him? And it was in her power to give him more than any had ever given him before.
Her mind was made up. She couched her answer in carefully chosen words.
“Sir, it was an accident. I am sure it was an accident. She would not have done such a thing herself. Never!”
Eagerly he seized on her words. This was the first suggestion of suicide. Here was a way out that he had not foreseen.
“Tell me,” he said, gently, “why should you think she might have done it herself, Mistress Pinto?”
“Oh, but I do not!” Pinto stared at him wildly, like a woman who has betrayed that which she had planned to hide. “She was a good woman. She prayed to God to save her from the consequences of desperation. She would have committed no such sin as taking her own life.”
“Had she some idea in her mind of destroying herself?”
“Nay, nay! It is true that there were times when she was so wretched that…”
“She was sick was she not?”
“She had troubles.”
“Troubles of the body as well as of the mind?”
“Lord Robert came so rarely to see her.”
They watched each other—he and Pinto, both alert.
He was thinking: Suicide! The next best thing to accident. He was framing his story. “Amy Dudley was suffering from a disease of the breast which she knew was killing her. It was painful, and she decided she would endure it no more. She sent her servants to the Fair so that, on that Sunday morning, she might end her life. A strange way in which to kill oneself? A fall from a staircase might not have meant death? Oh, but Amy’s state was one of hysteria. She would hardly have been aware of what she was doing. She longed for the company of her husband, but owing to his duties at Court he could not visit her as often as he would have wished. So, poor hysterical woman, she had sent her servants to the Fair that she might have a quiet house in which to kill herself.”
A sad story, but one which could cast no reflection on Lord Robert and the Queen.
Pinto was conscious of the triumph of a woman who loves and serves the loved one—even though she does so in secret.
On a warm Sunday morning, two weeks after she had died, Amy’s body was carried to the Church of St. Mary the Virgin in Oxford. The funeral was a grand one. It was as though Robert was determined to make up for his neglect of her during her lifetime by lavish display now that she was dead. There was a procession of several hundred people; and Amy’s halfbrother, John Appleyard, as he walked with other relations of hers and the students from the University, was filled with bitter thoughts. He had loved his young sister dearly, and he deeply resented her death; for nothing would convince him that it had not been arranged by her husband.
While the bell tolled, while the funeral sermon was being preached, John Appleyard’s heart was filled with hatred toward Robert Dudley.
There were others at the funeral who felt as John did.
There were many who would have wished to see Robert Dudley hanged for what he had done to an innocent woman who had had the misfortune to marry him and stand between him and his illicit passion for the Queen.
So Amy was laid to rest.
But although the jury had brought in a verdict of Death by Accident, all over the country people were talking of the mysterious death of Amy Dudley, and asking one another what part her husband and the Queen had played in it.
Robert was hopeful and expectant. Surely the Queen must marry him now that he was free.
As for the Queen, she wanted to marry him. This terrible thing which had happened had not altered her love. She was defiantly proud, exulting in the fact that he had put himself in such jeopardy for love of her. He was a strong man and there was in him all that she looked for. He was ready to marry her and face their critics; he was defiant and unafraid.
But her experiences had made her cautious. She wanted him, but she had no intention of losing her crown.
She could snap her fingers at Cecil, at Bacon, at Norfolk and Philip of Spain; but she must always consider the people of England.
Reports from all quarters were alarming. The French were saying that she could not continue to reign. How could she—a Queen who permitted a subject to kill his wife in order to marry her! The throne was tottering, said the French. They may have been beaten in Scotland, but soon it would be Elizabeth who suffered defeat. A people as proud as the English would never allow a murderess and an adulteress to reign over them.
When she rode out, her subjects were no longer spontaneous in their greetings.
All over the world there was gossip concerning the Queen and her paramour; lewd jokes were bandied about as once they had been with regard to the Princess Elizabeth and Thomas Seymour; stories were invented of the children she had borne her lover; she was spoken of as though she were a harlot instead of the Queen of a great country.
She was perplexed and undecided. There were times when she longed to turn to Robert and say “Let us marry and take the consequences.” At others she was reluctant to take any further risk. Always she seemed to hear the cries of the people when she had ridden through the streets of London at her Coronation: “God save Queen Elizabeth!”
She kept Robert at her side; she shared state secrets with him.
The Court looked on. It was said that it could not be long before she made him her husband.
But she wanted time to think, time to grow away from the emotional weeks which had culminated in Amy’s death. Time had always been her friend.
“Why do we wait?” asked Robert. “Cannot you see that while we hesitate we are in the hands of our enemies? Act boldly and end this dangerous suspense.”
She looked at him and fully realized his arrogance; she recognized the Dudley fire, the Dudley temperament which had raised two generations from the lowest state to the highest. This man whom she loved saw himself as King, the master of all those about him, her master. There was one thing he had forgotten; she too had her pride; she too had risen from despondency to exultation, from a prison in the Tower to greatness—in her case a throne. She might take a lover, but she would never accept a master.
Cecil decided that matters must not be allowed to remain as they were. It was imperative that the Queen should marry. Let her marry the man for whom she clearly had an inordinate desire; let there be an heir to the throne. That was the quickest way to make the people settle down and forget. When they were celebrating the birth of a Prince, they would forget how Amy Dudley had died.
The wedding could be secret. The people need not know of it until an heir was on the way.
Such procedure would be irregular, but Amy’s death was very unpleasant. It had to be forgotten. Much which this Queen’s father had done was unpleasant, but that King had kept his hold on the people’s affections.
Robert was delighted with Cecil’s change of opinion. He was triumphant, believing he had won; but he had reckoned without the Queen.
She had come to know her lover well, and those very qualities which she admired so much in him and which had made her love him, helped her now to make the decision that she would not marry him…for a while.
She knew that during those difficult weeks she had learned another lesson…a lesson as important to her as that which she had learned through Thomas Seymour…as important and as painful.
