by Alison Weir
Elizabeth felt oddly uncomfortable. A secret inner voice was whispering that it should be Amy Dudley’s husband who was at her side to restore her. “I am sure they will,” she said resolutely, putting all unpleasant thoughts firmly out of her head. Taking Robert’s hand, she drew him away from the hateful things on the table into the pretty gardens. There was a shady arbor there where they could talk privily and dally unseen, and she could make him forget about his wife’s woes.
The court moved to Windsor Castle in good time for the Queen’s birthday in September. She was twenty-seven, and she supposed her councillors would again take occasion to remind her that she ought to be married, so she took care to spend the day hunting with Robert at her side, shooting stags with a crossbow. They returned to find a messenger waiting for Robert with a letter from Oxfordshire. She saw his face drain of color as he opened it.
“She is dying,” he whispered. Elizabeth took the letter and read it.
“I am sorry for it,” she said. She wondered why he did not crave leave to go to Amy.
“It will be a merciful release,” Robert said, his face unreadable. She was unsure if he meant for Amy or for himself—and she was not sure if she welcomed this news or not. Nor did she want to think of illness and death on this beautiful day, when one should feel happy just to be alive.
Bishop de Quadra came to see her that evening, to offer his master’s congratulations on her natal day.
“I thank His Majesty,” she replied graciously, then decided, on an impulse, to ruffle Philip’s feathers. “Alas, I am in no mood to celebrate, for I have heavy matters on my mind. Lord Robert’s wife is dead—or nearly so.”
Quadra’s eyebrows shot up. “Dead?” He collected himself. “Well, madam, from what I hear, it has been expected.”
It was Elizabeth’s turn to look startled. What was the bishop implying?
“It is well known that she is ill,” the bishop said, as if reading her mind. No doubt her consternation had been plain to see. “Please convey my condolences to Lord Robert,” Quadra went on, smooth as ever.
“I will,” she said. “And Bishop, I beg of you, say nothing about this. You know how people will talk.”
Walking through the castle precincts the next day, and puffing a bit because the incline was steep, Quadra met Cecil. He felt sorry for the Secretary, who, though a heretic, was a clever, worthy man who should not have been in such disfavor. Alas, it was all the fault of that adventurer, Robert Dudley, who was blatantly doing his utmost to replace Cecil in the Queen’s counsels.
Cecil seemed disposed to talk; indeed, it soon became clear that he was eager to unburden himself. That was a little surprising, because usually he was not exactly forthcoming, save when it served him well to be so; nor was he one to gossip or touch on sensitive matters.
“Bishop, may I tell you something in confidence?” he asked now, glancing around to check that no one was nearby.
Surprised, Quadra hastened to assure him that he was the soul of discretion. (He would report whatever was said to King Philip, of course, and perhaps to various interested persons at court, if it served his purpose, but otherwise he would be discreet.)
“This must be kept secret,” Cecil emphasized.
“You may rely on me to keep it so, Master Secretary,” Quadra declared.
“Then I may tell you that the Queen is conducting herself in such a way that I am about to withdraw from her service.”
Quadra was agog. This was momentous! He could not wait to pass it on to his master, and his friends too.
Cecil’s face was grave. “It is a bad sailor who does not make for port when he sees a storm coming,” he observed, “and I foresee ruin impending through the Queen’s intimacy with Lord Robert. Lord Robert has made himself master of all the business of the state, and of the person of the Queen—”
“The person? You mean they have proceeded to the ultimate conjunction?” the bishop interrupted, astonished to be hearing such a thing from Elizabeth’s chief minister.
“It would not surprise me,” Cecil sighed, “but whatever the truth of that, the way Her Majesty conducts herself with Lord Robert can only be to the extreme injury of her realm. He, for his part, has every intention of marrying her.”
“I cannot believe that she would be so foolish,” Quadra said, shaking his head. Wait till King Philip heard this!
“I do not believe that the realm will tolerate the marriage,” Cecil went on, “and I do not intend to be here to find out. I am determined to retire to the country, although I suppose she will have me in the Tower before she will let me go.” He looked like a dog anticipating a blow from a cruel master.
“Is there anything I can do?” Quadra asked.
“I beg of you,” Cecil urged, “remonstrate with the Queen! You have the might of Spain behind you. Persuade her to not utterly throw herself away as she is doing. Urge her to remember what she owes to herself and to her subjects.”
The bishop promised he would do that as soon as the opportunity presented itself, and Cecil thanked him profusely. But there was an angry gleam in Cecil’s eyes.
“Lord Robert would be better in Paradise than here!” he muttered.
“I believe he thinks himself there already,” Quadra observed drily.
“Nay, Bishop, I mean he would be better off if he were in Heaven. And so would we! I must be honest with you. I despair of the Queen seeing sense! It is all down to Lord Robert, of course. He will be the ruin of this realm, and of me. You do not know the half of it.” Cecil looked around him, bent his head closer and spoke in a low voice. “They are thinking of destroying his wife. They have given out that she is ill.”
Quadra stiffened in silent amazement, remembering what Elizabeth had told him the day before.
“She is not ill at all,” Cecil went on. “She is very well, and taking good care not to be poisoned. I trust that God would never permit such a crime to be accomplished, or so wretched a conspiracy to prosper.” He gave the bishop a weighty look.
Quadra was stunned. Was Cecil actually telling him that Dudley and the Queen herself were conspiring to murder Lady Dudley? He had definitely said they, so who else could be involved but Elizabeth? If Cecil was so concerned for his mistress’s reputation, he was going the right way about thoroughly wrecking it for good and all. Yet would the Queen, an intelligent woman, really be so rash as to risk her crown by abetting murder? Quadra found it inconceivable. There was no mistaking it, however: Cecil was distraught. His career was at an end and he faced ignominy and ruin, and all because of the upstart Dudley. Small wonder that he had thrown his customary caution to the winds, and perhaps even exaggerated! For even now, with disaster facing him, the man’s thoughts were for the well-being of the queen he had served and her godforsaken kingdom. It was beyond belief that he had meant to implicate her in a vile crime.
“Rest assured, Sir William, I will speak with the Queen,” Quadra promised, “although I am not sure that it will help, as she has never taken my advice in the past.”
“She will pay more heed to you than to me, assuredly,” Cecil grunted.
Elizabeth watched Bishop de Quadra, who was standing in the crowded gallery, trying to ignore Lady Katherine Gray’s efforts to make him notice her. She knew that the bishop was waiting to catch her own eye, but on this glorious morning she could not be bothered with him. She was enjoying sitting close to Robert on this comfortable cushioned window seat, gazing into the eyes of her lover and laughing at some private joke he had made. Her ladies were waiting with her plumed bonnet and her embroidered kid gloves. Soon, with the sun rising high in the sky, she and Robert would be off hawking for the day.
A page approached and announced that a Master Bowes had arrived and was asking to see Lord Robert.
“Who is this?” she murmured.
“My man at Cumnor,” Robert said, his face darkening. “I think I know what it betokens.” His voice had lost its usual bombast.
“Show him in,” the Queen said.
Bowes came hastening and knelt. His clothing bore the evidence of hard riding and he appeared to be in some distress. His words tumbled out in a rush. “Your Majesty, my lord, I bring grave tidings. My good mistress is dead. She was found at the foot of the stairs with her neck broken.”
Robert stared at him, clearly shocked. Elizabeth’s mouth fell open. She was speechless, chilled to her soul.
It had happened again. Love had ended in violent death. Not so long ago, before matters had soured between them, Robert had held Amy in his arms and been as one flesh with her—and now Amy was a cold corpse, her neck broken. Just as Elizabeth’s mother’s neck had been broken, even more bloodily, for all that she had been loved passionately by a king. The two horrible images—imagined because, mercifully, she had seen neither reality—were superimposed in Elizabeth’s head: Amy sprawled with her neck twisted at the foot of the stairs; Anne lying on the bloodied straw of the scaffold, her neck severed.
“Tell me what happened,” Robert said, his voice hoarse.
“It was yesterday, my lord. Our Lady’s Fair was being held in Abingdon, and my lady gave us all permission to go. Some protested, not feeling it fitting to go jaunting on a Sunday, but she insisted. It was almost as if she wanted us out of the house.”
“What of the other ladies, her companions?” Robert asked. Elizabeth had so far said nothing, but her hands were shaking. Quadra was staring at her.
“One of them said she did not see why she should go and rub shoulders with mean persons, at which my lady grew very heated, but the lady insisted she stay behind, and by the time we left she had retired to her rooms. My lady was going to dine with another, then spend a quiet afternoon resting. She was not looking well at all.”
“Did any servants remain behind?” Robert inquired.
“A few, but they had been given the afternoon off, and were in their own quarters. None of them saw or heard anything amiss, so they say. But when we got back late yesterday afternoon and went into the hall, we found my lady lying at the foot of the stairs.”
“She was dead?”
“Yes, my lord. Her neck was at an impossible angle and there was blood in her hair from two head wounds.”
Elizabeth found her voice. “Master Bowes, could those wounds have resulted from an accidental fall?”
Bowes was clearly overawed by the dread person of his sovereign looming above him. “Yes, Your Majesty—” He faltered, considering, then turned gratefully back to Robert. “I believe they could. The poor lady was very frail. Maybe she fainted on the stairs, or tripped. Mr. Forster said I was to take horse at once to tell you the news. On the road, my lord, I met your man, Thomas Blount, riding toward Cumnor. He said he had gifts from you for Lady Dudley. I told him what had befallen her and he bade me ride on in haste to Windsor. He said he would continue his journey to Cumnor to see if he could find out more about this great misfortune, and discover what people were saying about it.”
“That is what worries me,” Robert said. “What people will say. Madam, may we talk in private?”
“No, Lord Robert,” Elizabeth said, in a loud voice that could be heard by all those standing around. “There is nothing to talk about. Your wife must have had a fall. I will have the news of this terrible accident announced in the court. Then it is my will and pleasure that an inquest be held. While that is taking place, we require you to go to Kew and remain there until you are recalled.” So saying, she rose and walked majestically past Robert, and away along the gallery.
Robert was plainly stunned. Those watching would later relate that his jaw actually dropped. He was realizing that he must have sounded less concerned about his wife’s death than about the consequences for himself. Was that what had angered Elizabeth? He looked around desperately, as if seeking some support, but the faces he saw were hostile. Now that the Queen had so publicly withdrawn her favor, the wolves were waiting to pounce. He got up and hastened after her.
He caught up with her in the presence chamber as she was about to go through the privy chamber door. Her two ladies fell back in astonishment at the sight of Dudley, wild-eyed and agitated, bearing down on her, and the usher guarding the door shot him a warning look.
“No, Robin!” she growled, her father to the very life. “Importune me not!”
“Bess!” he pleaded. “Hear me out. I have done nothing wrong! The greatness and suddenness of this misfortune perplexes me as much as it does you. Think what the malicious world will say! And I have no means of purging myself of the evil rumors that wicked people will put about. All I care about is that the plain truth be known. I did not murder my wife! I will employ every device and means in my power for discovering the truth, without respect to any person. I want a full inquiry, carried out by the most discreet and substantial men who can search and probe thoroughly until they get to the bottom of the matter. I would be sorry in my heart if they found that evil was committed, but it must appear to the world that I am innocent! Madam, you must believe that!”
Elizabeth had heard him out with an impassive expression on her face, but now she turned to go. “Lord Robert, you know as well as I what people will think. There have been rumors that you intended Amy’s destruction, or sought to be rid of her. It matters not what I believe. The coroner must decide in the matter, and until your innocence can be proclaimed to the world, you must leave court. If you stay and I show you favor, people will believe that I too am guilty. So go, now.”
She could not look him in the eye. If she did, she knew she would be lost. This changed everything. The long, glorious summer was over, perhaps forever. She made herself walk on and close the door. She must be a queen first—and a woman second.
While the coroner was busy about his business, Elizabeth kept mostly to her apartments. She did not feel like seeing anyone, and on the few occasions she came forth, she appeared pale and agitated. She missed Robert unbearably, and of the implications—and the horror—of Amy Dudley’s death, she did not dare to think.
As soon as Robert left court, Cecil had been back at her side, his talk of resignation forgotten. Effortlessly restored to his old supremacy in her counsels, he was her Spirit once more, supportive as ever, and unobtrusively shouldering the burdens of government that she did not feel she could face. She was like a broken thing, cast from daylight into nightmare, hardly able to think ahead.
Cecil was kind. He even showed some sympathy for Robert and visited him at Kew. It was easy for him to be sympathetic, Elizabeth thought, now that his rival was out of the way. Even so, she appreciated his strength and wisdom at this time.
They spoke often of Amy Dudley’s death. It was the only topic of conversation at court, and speculation was rampant.
“Most people suspect foul play,” Cecil said, his face impassive.
“They think Robert did it,” Elizabeth said dully.
“He is hot to protest his innocence. He writes daily urging that the truth be uncovered. He too believes that his wife was murdered. He is zealous seeking out the truth and to see justice done. Of course, he wants to clear his name. A man without friends at court is like a hop without a pole.”
“Do you believe him innocent?”
“Madam, it is no secret that I have little love for Lord Robert. But I find it hard to believe him capable of such cruelty. His wife was dying. He had only to wait a little longer. Do you believe it, madam?”
Elizabeth looked him square in the eye. “No, William, I do not. But I am of two minds about the matter. Either someone loyal to Robert murdered Lady Dudley in the belief that it would clear the way for him to marry me; or one of his enemies did away with her, knowing that calumny would fasten upon him. You know as well as I, my Spirit, that whatever the outcome, I can never marry him now. People would always point the finger and say we plotted her death together. I have wondered if someone who was against our marrying decided to scupper any possibility of it.”
Cecil frowned. “Have you discounted the likelihood that it was an accident?”
“If it was, it was a timely one,” Elizabeth said. “And something struck me as very strange: the fact that Lady Dudley was so earnest to have her servants go to the fair, and became angry with those who insisted on staying. It was as if she wanted everyone out of the house for some secret purpose of her own.”
Cecil was silent for a few moments. “I have heard tales about her that make me think she was strange in her mind. What of the testimony of her maid, who said that Lady Dudley was on her knees every day, begging God to deliver her from desperation?”
“You think she took her own life?” Elizabeth was amazed.
“Imagine, madam, that you are ill, in much pain, and expecting death daily. You are alone and forsaken, your lord being continually away at court.” Elizabeth stirred at the implied criticism, but let it go. Cecil went on: “You are deeply disturbed in your mind. You might take an easy way out, and make sure that no one is there to stop you.”
“But it is not an easy way!” she cried. “It means eternal damnation. Who would willingly be cast out forever from the sight of God for the sake of a few more days’ suffering on Earth? Nay, William, there is more to this—there has to be. Mayhap Lady Dudley wanted people out of the way because she was expecting a visitor—the man who murdered her.”
“Madam, this is pure speculation,” Cecil answered, a trifle testily. “There is no evidence for it.”
“William, by all reports she was intent on being left alone on that fatal afternoon. She was insistent that her people went to the fair, and angry when some wanted to stay behind. Why? She might well have planned a secret meeting with the person who killed her. The house was mostly deserted that afternoon. The murderer could have come, done his work, and departed, unseen by anyone else.”
Cecil was adamant. “Again, this is supposition, madam. The evidence strongly suggests that Lady Dudley killed herself.”
“We cannot rule out any possibility,” Elizabeth insisted. “God grant that the coroner reaches his verdict soon. Then the truth will be known.”
