The Marriage Game

by Alison Weir

  “I ask you also to ensure that Tamworth, Lord Robert’s servant, be assigned a pension of five hundred pounds per annum.” Robert knew why she had ordered this. Tamworth, who slept on a pallet bed near his master, had been privy to his secret meetings with Elizabeth; he knew—or had guessed—about their nights together. Such a generous pension would buy his silence. One glance at the privy councillors told Robert that they were thinking much the same thing, but Elizabeth had seen their reaction and was ready for them.

  “My lords, I may shortly be facing divine judgment,” she said, her voice a little stronger now, “and I want to declare to you that although I love, and always have loved, Lord Robert dearly, as God is my witness, nothing unseemly has ever passed between us.”

  Well, thought Robert, it depended on what you termed unseemly. Others might take a different view, as was apparent in the faces of the lords grouped around the bed, although some—Cecil among them—were nodding sagely, as if they had known the truth all along. After all, why would Elizabeth risk meeting her Maker with a lie on her lips?

  At least there were no protests. To a man, the councillors promised to do all that she asked, although it was undeniable that some gave answer reluctantly. As they left the room, Robert heard Sussex say something about not wanting to distress the Queen, as she was all but gone, and later that day Bishop de Quadra, ever abreast of events, warned him that those promises would not be fulfilled. Robert realized that if Elizabeth did die, he would face weighty opposition.

  When Dr. Burcot returned with more of his efficacious potion, he found his august patient staring in horror at her hands.

  “The spots! I am coming out in spots!” she wailed.

  “God’s pestilence,” he swore at her, having no time or patience for courtesies. “Which is better? To have the pox in your hands or face—or in your heart, so that it kills you?” Then he marched out to inform the waiting lords and councillors that the spots were a good sign. “They indicate that the worst is over,” he told them. “Soon the pustules will dry out, scabs will form, and later they will fall off. We must stop the Queen from scratching!”

  “Has he ever tried to stop the Queen from doing anything?” Bacon muttered in Cecil’s ear. But Elizabeth, terrified lest her beauty be destroyed, proved an obedient patient, and thenceforward, to the profound relief of Robert, her councillors, and her courtiers, she improved rapidly. Within a very short time she was up and about again, and a special coin was minted to mark her recovery. But as everyone knew, God had been extraordinarily merciful.

  When she at last resumed her seat at the head of the council, Cecil, with the consent of the rest (or most of them, for there had been dissenting voices) had prepared what he was going to and indeed knew he must say to her.

  “Madam,” he declared, “we, your loyal and loving lords and subjects, wish to express our great gratitude to Almighty God that you have warded off Death, that blind fury with his abhorred shears, who cuts us off at his whim.”

  Elizabeth inclined her head graciously. It was gratifying to hear such expressions of devotion, and her heart was full of thanks for her recovery and her strong constitution. For the thousandth time she looked down at her hands. God had been merciful there too. Her scars were rapidly fading. In a few weeks there would be nothing to see.

  “But, madam,” Cecil went on—she had guessed there was more to come—“this illness has brought home to us all, as nothing else, that only Your Majesty’s most precious life stands between peaceful, stable government and the miseries and wars likely to follow upon a disputed succession. Madam, we, your councillors, and Parliament, are resolved to urge Your Majesty to marry Lord Robert without delay and provide us with an heir of your body.”

  It was as bad as Elizabeth had feared, and of course they had every reason to urge her. “I have said that I will wed Lord Robert next year,” she said.

  “Why wait so long?” Cecil asked. “Madam, let us be done with delays, negotiations, and fruitless prolongings. We beg of you, for the security of your realm, marry now!”

  Elizabeth bristled. “My lords, this is unworthy of you. I am barely risen from my sickbed. I am not well enough to think of marrying at this time. Allow me to make a full recovery, and then I will attend to your request.”

  Before anyone could protest—and Cecil already had his mouth open to do so—she stood up and made her way to the door, taking care to maintain an invalid’s tentative gait. And the councillors had no choice but to get to their feet and bow.

  When she reached her privy chamber, she felt drained, and sat down gratefully by the fire, telling herself vehemently that this was certainly not the time for her councillors to be bullying her into marriage. And then—as if she had not enough to contend with—she saw Kat hurrying toward her, weeping, and knew that some new mischance had come to pass. All thoughts of marriage flew out of her head.

  “Bess, I hardly know how to tell you,” Kat cried, wringing her hands. “Mary Sidney has the smallpox.”

  “No!” Elizabeth burst out. “No, please God! If she dies, it will be on my conscience. I asked her to stay with me when I was ill, and she nursed me devotedly, putting herself at risk—as you did too, dear Kat. And now she has caught the pox from me. What can I do?” Burying her face in her hands, she gave in to her unaccustomed weakness and fear, and collapsed in tears. And that was how Robert, summoned by Kat, found her some minutes later.

  “Hush, hush, my sweet,” he soothed, cradling her in his arms. “Do not blame yourself. You knew not what you were saying. We all warned Mary, but she insisted on staying with you. She loves you as a sister.”

  “Where is she, Robin?” Elizabeth asked, resting her head on his shoulder, which at that moment represented a refuge from a cruel world. She knew this terrible news must be hitting him hard too; his love for Mary was probably the most unselfish emotion he had ever experienced. And her husband, loyal Sir Henry Sidney, in whose arms Elizabeth’s brother King Edward had died—he must be distraught as well.

  “She is at Penshurst,” Robert said. “She was needed there because Harry is abroad. My God, I pray she will weather this. As for my brother-in-law, I do not know if the news has reached him. I dare not think how he must feel.”

  “Robin, we must put our trust in God.” Elizabeth sat up, setting her pearled cap to rights and trying to be positive. “We must pray that He will recompense you all for your wonderful service to me, and when Mary recovers, as I trust she will, I will reward her as amply as she deserves. As for you, sweet Robin, a reward is long overdue. I have decided to promote you to my Privy Council.”

  Robert fell to his knees, seized her hands and kissed them fervently. “Bess, I will be worthy of this honor, I swear it! And yes, we must have faith: Mary will get well.”

  “I will pray for her. But I must tell you one thing, my Eyes. In order to silence your critics, I am preferring Norfolk to the Privy Council also. I know there is no love lost between you, but I have to be seen to be fair.”

  Robert grimaced at her mention of Norfolk, but Elizabeth ran her fingers through his hair. “Would another pension of a thousand pounds make up for it?”

  “For that, I will go out of my way to be friendly to his lordship,” he replied, kissing her. “Even though it will nearly kill me to do so!”

  Good news came in a series of messages from Penshurst. Mary Sidney was recovering. She hoped to return to court soon. Expansive with relief, Elizabeth sent for her jeweler and ordered lavish gifts for her dearest friend, then sent Robert down to Kent to take them to his sister.

  When he returned some days later, Elizabeth took one look at his face and her hand flew to her mouth in dismay.

  “She has died?” she whispered.

  “No, Bess.” He was struggling to stay in command of himself. “But she will not be returning to court. Not ever.”

  “What do you mean? Tell me, for God’s sake!”

  “The smallpox has left her hideously scarred. The physicians say there is n
o hope of improvement. Harry is in great grief.”

  Elizabeth closed her eyes in horror. This was truly terrible, and she herself was responsible. Poor Harry Sidney—and poor, poor disfigured Mary. Elizabeth could not bear to imagine what she looked like now. All that beauty destroyed in a trice. It was horrible, too horrible to contemplate.

  Robert was shaking his head sadly. “Harry told me that when he left to go abroad, he had said farewell to the fairest lady in his sight. But when he returned he found her as foul as the smallpox could make her. The wife he knew is lost to him.”

  “I am suffering with him,” Elizabeth declared, shivering at the thought that this could so easily have been her, and swamped with guilt. “And she, my sweet Mary, how is she taking it?”

  “She says little. She keeps to a darkened room and will not come forth. She does not want anyone but her maids to look upon her.”

  “Oh dear God, why?” Elizabeth cried. “I must go to her.”

  “Not yet, I beg of you,” Robert pleaded. “She would not want to receive you.”

  “But she has been as a sister to me! Surely she does not think that a few pockmarks will alter my love for her?”

  “Give her time, Bess. She knows that we who love her will not be swayed by that.”

  But Elizabeth could not let it rest. As soon as she was fully herself again, she made Robert saddle her fastest horse, and with him, grim-faced, and a handful of attendants following behind, she cantered at speed down to Penshurst. There, her arrival was hastily announced, and as she strode through the soaring great hall and ascended the curving staircase to the private apartments above, Sir Henry Sidney came down to greet her, surprised in his hunting gear and not at all fittingly dressed to receive his queen. But it did not matter. Ceremony was set aside as Elizabeth drew him into her embrace and they wept together for the tragedy that had befallen them.

  Elizabeth insisted on seeing Mary and would not take no for an answer.

  “Do not announce me,” she commanded. “I know that she will refuse to admit me if you do.”

  Harry led Elizabeth and Robert through the long gallery to a bedchamber cast in gloom. Heavy curtains shrouded the windows and the only light came from a single candle and the flickering fire. Mary was seated on a chair, her back to them. She wore a black veil. At the sound of the door opening, she turned her head slightly.

  “Harry?”

  “Mary,” he said, stepping to her side and kissing her hand. “I bring our good friend.”

  “Robert?” Her voice was full of hope.

  “Yes, good sister,” Robert answered, moving into the firelight. “And Bess is here.”

  “Do not get up,” Elizabeth said from behind him. “Forgive me, Mary, I had to come.”

  “No! No! I do not want Your Majesty to see me like this,” Mary protested weakly. Her head was still turned away, her face hidden by the veil.

  “Do you think that matters?” Elizabeth asked her. “It means everything to me that you are restored to us.”

  “I am not the woman you knew …” Mary said, faltering.

  “You are still you!” Elizabeth countered. “Take off that veil and let me see your dear face.”

  “No, not even for Your Majesty can I do that.” Mary was becoming agitated now. “I can never reveal myself in public again. I am become deformed and hideous, and people will shrink from me.”

  Harry Sidney made a gesture of abject despair. Tears were streaming down his cheeks.

  “Even Harry cannot bear to look upon me!” Mary burst out. “My life is over.”

  “Not so, sweetheart!” he protested.

  “Nonsense,” declared Elizabeth, and with a swift movement she pulled the veil from Mary’s head—and stepped back in horror. For the once smooth and beautiful face was now rutted with deep, pitted lesions like a stony landscape, and the scarred eyelids were nearly closed. Mary screamed, snatching the veil back, and Elizabeth drew in her breath.

  “Oh, my dear friend,” she said, “I am so deeply sorry. I can never forgive myself.”

  “Well, I can,” Mary answered spiritedly. “It was no one’s fault but my own.”

  “Sweet wife,” Harry appealed to her, “we none of us care what you look like. It is the soul within that we love. Will you not join us for the supper that we must, in all courtesy, serve to Her Majesty? You will be among friends.”

  “And I myself will act as our servitor,” Elizabeth declared.

  Mary paused in the act of pulling her veil over her head.

  “Mary, you must learn to live again,” Harry urged.

  “Very well,” she said, and they all breathed out in relief.

  But she was adamant that she would not return to court, which meant that Elizabeth could see her only when she visited the Sidneys, which was not as often as she would have liked. Again and again she begged her friend to come back to serve her. Mary, at length becoming as used as she ever would to her disfigurement, and worn down by her mistress’s pleas, agreed. But she was a mournful, wraithlike figure in her black veil, and both women were relieved—Mary openly, Elizabeth secretly—when Henry Sidney was sent to Ireland, as Lord Lieutenant, and Mary was able to go with him.

  Judging the mood of her councillors and people in the wake of her brush with death, Elizabeth was reluctant to summon Parliament.

  “Not yet!” she insisted. She had no intention of being bullied into marrying. She had no peace from Robert on the subject, let alone Cecil, and her Lords and Commons could be demanding and stubborn.

  “Madam, the business of the kingdom cannot wait,” her Spirit persisted.

  “After Christmas,” she said firmly.

  “There are pressing matters to be discussed,” Robert weighed in. Since his preferment to the council, he had made himself cognizant of all such matters and conscientious in making his voice heard. On this issue he, Norfolk, and Cecil were in accord.

  Arundel spoke up. “Madam, it is the succession of which we speak.”

  “It is not seemly for you, a subject, to interfere in such a matter,” Elizabeth reproved him, very angry now.

  “With respect, madam, it is the right of your Lords and Commons to interfere in a matter that touches the whole realm,” Arundel answered.

  She rounded on him furiously. “You would not have dared say that to my father!”

  “Your father, madam, made continuous efforts to secure the succession, as I remember,” Arundel countered.

  “And he would have had your head for such insolence!” she shouted, hot tears of temper welling.

  “Let us calm down,” Cecil intervened. Never mind the succession: war was threatening here in the council chamber. “Madam, leaving aside the question of your successor, which it is Your Majesty’s prerogative to decide, may I remind you that Parliament has the power to vote for the revenues that the crown badly needs at this time?”

  He had her there, damn him! The treasury was all but empty. She gritted her teeth and summoned Parliament.

  1563

  Even before Parliament convened, Westminster was abuzz with talk of the succession. Members coming up from the shires had but one aim in mind, which they shared with the Lords donning their fur-trimmed robes in readiness for the opening ceremonies. After the previous autumn’s smallpox scare, the matter must be settled once and for all.

  Robert was bursting with anticipation. It was now “next year,” Elizabeth had given him her promise, and the whole country, miraculously, was on his side.

  The Queen was seated defiantly in state on her throne in the House of Lords as Dean Nowell of St. Paul’s delivered the opening address. And, predictably, he did not waste time in raising the subject that was on everyone’s mind.

  “Just as Queen Mary’s marriage was a terrible plague to all England, so now the want of Queen Elizabeth’s marriage and royal issue is like to prove as great a plague,” he declaimed. Elizabeth glowered at him, but he faced her boldly. “Madam, if your parents had been of like mind, where would you
have been then?” You would have been in the Tower had you spoken thus to my father, Elizabeth thought, simmering with wrath. But the dean plowed on, ignoring her icy gaze. “Alack!” he cried. “What shall become of us?”

  I know what will become of you, she thought viciously. How she contained her fury, she did not know, and she was mightily relieved to depart soon afterward (inwardly vowing never again to show favor to Dean Nowell), leaving both houses to their furious debating. She knew she had not heard the last of them, and sure as the Dreadful Day of Judgment, a lovingly worded petition signed by all the Lords and Commons arrived at Whitehall soon afterward. Before she knew it, Elizabeth found herself standing once more in her presence chamber, facing her Commons.

  The Speaker, looking suitably intractable and kneeling at the head of a deputation of his equally intractable fellows, read it out to her. “Your Majesty, we, your loyal and loving subjects, so rejoice in the bounty and fruits of Your Majesty’s rule that we earnestly desire to see its glorious continuance, and to this end we urge you most humbly to marry as soon as it may please you, or to designate a successor; for in so doing you will strike terror into your enemies and replenish your subjects with immortal joy.” He went on relentlessly to remind her of the terror felt by her people during her illness, and warned her that unspeakably awful civil wars might result if she died without naming her successor. A very long list of calamities would ensue: the meddlings of foreign princes, the warring of ambitious factions, seditions, slaughter, the destruction of noble houses, the subversion of towns, the stealing of men’s possessions, attainders, treasons … Elizabeth wondered if bad weather might even be on the list.