by Jean Plaidy
There was great consternation, and in the confusion, the marksman, in his boat, made off. One of the Queen’s bargemen lay on the deck of the royal barge, shot through the arm.
The Queen was calmer than those about her, in spite of the fact that she believed this to have been an attempt on her life. She unwound her scarf and bound up the man’s wound herself.
“Be of good cheer,” she comforted him. “I shall see that you never want. That bullet was meant for your Queen, and you took it in her stead.”
But the bullet had passed very close to Monsieur Simiers, and he had his own ideas about the intended target.
Back in his apartments he paced up and down in angry exasperation.
“Now,” he said to the members of his suite, “they are attempting to take my life. What can I do? How can I bring about a match between Monsieur and such a woman? They are barbarians, these people. And I know who is the instigator of this plot. It is Leicester. Would to God some of his enemies would take it into their heads to kill him. If that could be done, much trouble might be saved.”
“He still hopes,” said one of Simiers’ men, “to marry the Queen himself.”
“I do not see how that can be,” said another, “for I heard news of my lord of Leicester only the other day and, if it is true, he must have lost all hope of marrying Her Majesty.”
“What story is this?”
“It is said that he has married the Countess of Essex.”
Simiers threw back his head and laughed aloud. Then he became serious. “Did not the Earl of Essex die mysteriously in Ireland some time ago?”
“That is so.”
“And there was an inquiry into his death conducted by Leicester’s brother-in-law! Come, this is the best news I have heard since I first set foot in this land. We have played Monsieur Leicester’s game too long. Now he shall play ours.”
Simiers presented himself to the Queen.
“Your Majesty blooms like a rose…and that after your mishap on the river!”
“’Twas nothing, Monsieur Monkey. A Queen must be prepared for any possibility.”
“She needs a strong arm to protect her.”
“Do not fear, Monsieur; she is strong enough to protect herself.”
“She needs the affection of a husband. Will you not sign this document which I have prepared? It is a summons to my master to appear before you. Once he sees this he will come with all speed. Then you will see for yourself how he adores you; and, Your Majesty, so handsome is he, that I doubt not you will find him the most irresistible man you have ever set eyes upon.”
She pretended to consider this. How could she send for him? Did she want trouble with France? To send for him and refuse him would be an insult they would never overlook. One did not inspect Princes as one did a horse.
“Ah, would it were in my power, dear Monkey. These ministers of mine…”
“Your Majesty should marry. Is not marriage in the air? Those about you enjoy its blessings. Will Your Majesty remain aloof from them?”
“Those about me? You mean…some of my ladies?”
“Nay, Your Majesty; I was referring to my lord of Leicester and his recent marriage to the beautiful Countess of Essex.”
She put out a hand as though to steady herself. He snatched it and put it to his lips.
She did not see his ugly face. She only saw those two together: Lettice, who was not unlike herself, but younger and more beautiful, and Robert, her favorite whom she loved as she would never love another person.
She could not doubt the words of this man. She wondered why she had not guessed what had happened. She remembered now the change in Robert and the mincing complacency of that she-wolf. There had been secret looks among her ladies and gentlemen.
Now she was possessed by such rage as she had never felt before.
“Where is this document, man?” she cried harshly.
“Here…here, Your Majesty.” Simiers turned from her to hide the triumph in his eyes. He spread the papers on a table and handed her a pen.
Even her signature was an angry one.
“Your Majesty, my master will be enraptured. This will be the happiest day of his life…”
“Leave me now,” she said.
Sly and knowledgeable, hiding his delight, he bowed low and hurried away before she could change her mind.
Now there was no longer need for restraint. “Where are my women?” she shouted. “Why do they not attend me? Kat…you sly devil, where are you? What have you been doing all these weeks?”
They came running in and stood before her, trembling.
“What news of Leicester?” she spat out at them.
They were silent, each waiting for another to speak first.
She stamped her foot. “What of that snake?” she screamed. “What of Leicester?” She took the woman nearest her and shook her until she begged for mercy.
The Queen’s hair had broken loose from her headdress; her eyes grew wilder and purple color flamed into her face.
No one dared speak until at last Kat said: “Dearest Majesty…dearest…dearest…”
“Did you not hear me?” shouted the Queen. “I said: ‘What of that snake who calls himself a man?’ So he has married that sly animal, has he? He has married that low creature, that she-wolf?”
“Majesty,” said Kat, “it is true. They married…”
“They married!” cried Elizabeth. “Did they ask my consent? Did they keep it secret? Did you? Did you…and you?” Each “you” was accompanied by a stinging blow on the cheek for all those nearest. “And you…and you and…you…knew this, and thought it meet to keep it from me?”
“Dearest, dearest!” begged Kat. And in an agonized whisper she added: “Remember…remember…do not betray your feelings thus.”
Elizabeth was swaying vertiginously with the intensity of her emotion.
“Quick!” cried Kat. “Help me unlace Her Majesty’s bodice. There, my love. Kat has you. Come, lie on your couch, darling. You’ll feel better then. Kat’s here beside you.”
With great presence of mind Kat dismissed all the women; she knelt by the couch, chafing the Queen’s hands while the tears ran down Kat’s cheeks and words babbled from her lips. “Oh, my darling, I would have given my life to spare you this. But, dearest, you would not marry him. You must not blame him…”
“Blame him!” flared Elizabeth. “By God’s Body, I’ll blame him! He shall pay for all the pleasure he has had with her.”
“Darling, it was only natural. You see, he has been so long unmarried.”
“Have I not been long unmarried?”
“But it was my darling’s royal wish.”
“They shall lose their heads for this, and I’ll see the deed done.”
“Be calm, my sweeting. Be quiet, my sweet Bess. Let me get you a little wine.”
“You know I do not like wine.”
“I’ll mix water with it. It will revive you, dearest. There…there…that’s better.”
“It is not better, Kat. It will never be better. You know how I loved him.”
“But you did not marry him, dearest.”
“Stop all this talk of marriage. You do it but to torment me.”
“Dearest Majesty, remember you are the Queen. You must not show your jealousy like this. You are above such things.”
“I am indeed. I am above them all, and I’ll have obedience. They shall go to the Tower at once…both of them.”
“Yes, yes, my love. They shall go to the Tower.”
“If you try to soothe me, Madam, and continue to talk to me as though I am four years old, you shall accompany them to the Tower.”
“Yes, darling, so I shall.”
“Oh Kat! What a deceiver! What a scoundrel!”
“He is the worst man in the world,” said Kat.
“How dare you say it! You know he is not. It is all her fault. Ha! Little does he know the woman he has married. Let him discover.”
She stood up suddenly.
Kat watched her fearfully as she strode to the door.
She said to the guards there: “The Earl of Leicester is here at Greenwich, is he not?”
“He is, Your Majesty.”
“Then go to his apartments with a party of the strongest guards. Place him under close arrest, and tell him he may expect to leave shortly for the Tower.”
She came back to her couch and, flinging herself upon it, gave way to bitter weeping.
All England was talking about the “Mounseer.” He had come to England, and he had come without ceremony, and in disguise had appeared suddenly at Greenwich with only two servants, asking to be taken to Her Majesty that he might throw himself at her feet.
He was very small and far from handsome; his face was dark and pock-marked; but he could murmur the kind of compliment that delighted the Queen as none of her courtiers—not even Robert—had been able to do. His clothes were exquisite; he could foot a measure with such grace as to make Christopher Hatton appear clumsy; he displayed French graces of such elegance that Elizabeth, smarting under what she privately called Leicester’s betrayal, declared that she was charmed with him.
Robert and Lettice were under arrest, and Elizabeth had the satisfaction of knowing that they could not meet. She had not sent Robert to the Tower as she had at first intended; Burghley with Sussex had begged her not to do so and thereby expose her jealousy and passion to the world. To keep him a prisoner at Greenwich until her anger cooled was one thing; to make him a state prisoner in the Tower quite another, they cautioned her.
She saw the wisdom of this advice, and kept Robert prisoner at Greenwich in his own apartments, while she amused herself with Monsieur.
And how she seemed to enjoy herself! At least it was some balm to her misery. Kat, who loved her so tenderly, in dismay watched her caressing the little Prince in public. She had quickly nick-named him her Frog, and continually wore on her bosom a jeweled ornament in the shape of a frog.
But the country was not pleased with the suitor. The marriage would be a ridiculous one, it was said, since the Queen was forty-six and Anjou twenty-three. Was it possible for the Queen to have a child at her age? it was asked. And what other reason could there be for the marriage?
A man named Stubbs published a pamphlet he had written denouncing the match.
“This man,” he wrote, “is the son of King Henry, whose family ever since he married with Catherine of Italy is fatal as it were to resist the gospel and have been, every one after the other, as a Domitian after a Nero.”
Stubbs and his publisher were imprisoned by order of the Queen, and both condemned to have their right hands cut off. Crowds gathered in the market place at Westminster to see this done, and the people murmured against the Queen.
This grieved Elizabeth; but she had, in a moment of passion, sent for the Duke, and she dared not risk offending the French by allowing their royal family to be insulted while the Duke was actually her guest.
Philip Sidney—who was handsome, gifted and charming as well as being Robert’s nephew—was one of the Queen’s favorite younger men. He now wrote to her in a manner which was more insulting to the French Prince than even Stubbs had been.
“How the hearts of your people will be galled,” he wrote, “if not aliened when they see you take as husband a Frenchman and a papist, in whom the very common people know this: he is the son of that Jezebel of our age, and his brother made oblation of his own sister’s marriage, the easier to massacre our brethren in religion…”
Philip Sidney was banished from the Court.
There were storms in the Parliament. Some of her ministers were quite blunt, saying she was old enough to be the Duke’s mother. Others, more politic, implied the same thing in a more courteous way: They did not wish to see the Queen risk her life by attempting to bear children.
And Elizabeth, when she was not flirting with Monsieur, or raging against Robert—or fretting for him—was thinking of what was happening in the Netherlands, and how Philip of Spain was gaining domination over the poor suffering people of that land; and she wondered what would happen when he had completely subdued them.
Then, all the world thought, and Elizabeth must think it too, his attention would turn to England, for was not his dream to abolish Protestantism throughout the world, and was not England a refuge for the Huguenots of France and the Netherlands?
Elizabeth could tremble when she thought of that day. The great dread of her life was war; and even now that dread seeped through her miseries caused by Robert’s defection, and curbed her gaiety in the French Prince’s wooing.
While her statesmen wondered how a woman of her age and genius could act with such girlish folly, simpering, giggling, urging her wooer on to what—in the eyes of Englishmen—seemed the most foppish folly, she was flattering him as he was flattering her. Not only did she lead him to believe that he was a very fascinating man, but she let him know that she considered he was born to command an army; and since it was the destiny of France to go to war with Spain, and she was sure there was a kingdom to be won in the Netherlands by a man of courage, spirit, and genius, such as Monsieur undoubtedly possessed, she wondered why he did not seek his fortune in Flanders.
His brother, a young man, was on the throne of France; it was a sad thing, she knew from experience, to be near the throne and have serious doubts of ever reaching it. There were always plots and counter-plots; it was a wise thing to make a kingdom for oneself; and if one were a man, brave as a lion, a military genius—as she was convinced her little Frog was—he should first win his kingdom, and then come for his bride.
She knew the man with whom she was dealing. He had need to assert himself. As little Hercule, the youngest of his family, he had suffered much humiliation. To be small and ugly and to have been marred by the pox was bad enough, but to be called Hercule into the bargain had been an intolerable insult which Fate had given him. Mercifully his name had been changed to François, but no one could change his face. His mother disliked him because he was his brother’s enemy, and he believed that she had tried to poison him. He needed to show the world what a great man he was, and he was determined that all should see him as Queen Elizabeth had. He would go to the Netherlands and fight the Spaniards.
The Queen, he believed, was so much in love with him that she would help him to finance his expedition.
So the Queen sat smiling, and her ministers marveled that the seemingly foolish woman was sending Anjou away in the utmost amity to fight England’s war in the Netherlands. Should the money be granted? Indeed it should! This was a master-stroke of policy.
The Queen was so pleased with her plan—and glad in truth to say good-bye to her little Frog, who was beginning to tire her—that she smiled on all the world.
He must have an escort to take him across the sea, she declared.
“Master Leicester has been idle too long. I will put him in command of my dear Frog’s escort and make some use of the man.”
This was a sign to all that once more she had forgiven Robert.
TEN
She took him back, but whenever she saw him with Lettice she was jealous and alert.
She was angry because the marriage seemed to be successful. Robert had ceased to look at other women. Was it his age? wondered the Queen. Or had that she-wolf some magic power? She was sure the wolf was capable of anything. Wolves were treacherous animals.
A son was born to them—another Robert Dudley—and Elizabeth did not know whether she was pleased or angry. He had once said that she should perpetuate her beauty. She thought: He has perpetuated his, mayhap, and I am glad of that, though I would the boy were not that woman’s son.
Lettice already had one son, and the Queen could not help being attracted by him in spite of his mother, for young Robert Devereux, Earl of Essex, was the handsomest young man she had seen since the days when his stepfather had enchanted her.
Often she would look sadly at her Robert and think: We are getting old now—too old for jealousy, too
old for enmity. She would compare him with the young man who had ridden to her at Hatfield on a white horse, to tell her she was Queen. Poor Robert, he had put on much weight; his face was over-red from too much good living; that sensuality which had been virility in youth became grossness in old age.
And she herself? She was a goddess; she would not be frightened by the encroaching years. All about her were men—men of her Robert’s age and others of young Essex’s age—to tell her she was a goddess who—without Cornelius Lanoy’s elixir—had found eternal youth.
Anjou had failed in the Netherlands, but William the Silent was waging furious war there for his people’s freedom. All eyes in England were on the Netherlands; the outcome of that war for freedom was of the utmost importance.
And the eyes of the Spaniards were on England. What sort of a woman is this? was being asked in Spanish Councils. What sort of a country does she rule? It is only part of an island, yet she acts as though she rules the world. Her seamen are arrogant pirates. They are diverting treasure from Spanish coffers. They are bold and adventurous; they have no respect for His Most Catholic Majesty. They insult the Holy Inquisition itself.
There were names which were spoken of with horror and dread in Spanish ships and Spanish territories: Drake, Hawkins…the fearless ones. How could men be so fearless as these were? How could they always win? It was because they were in the pay of the Devil. They were not men; they were sorcerers.
Clearly these men and their arrogant Queen would have to be taught a lesson. Francis Drake came sailing home from Chile and Peru with all the treasure plundered from Spanish towns in the new world, and from Spanish galleons. He had rounded the Cape, and by so doing, the world. And what did the Queen do when this pirate arrived home? Did she hang him as he deserved? Did she treat him as a thief, a robber, and a murderer of His Most Catholic Majesty’s subjects?
No! He was a handsome man, and she liked him for that among other things. She liked his Devon burr and she liked his flashing eyes. He was a man after her own heart, for, in his country way, he could pay a gallant compliment.
