by Alison Weir
Elizabeth was all serene graciousness once more.
“However,” Maitland continued, “I feel certain that Queen Mary would not wish to deprive Your Majesty of all the joy and solace that you receive from the company of Lord Robert.”
The smile froze on Elizabeth’s face. Joy and solace? she thought. There had not been much of that lately. But not so long ago there had, oh, there had …
She was not unmindful of the implication in Maitland’s words, and was determined to refute it by showing him that giving up Robert would not hurt as much as he thought. She said lightly, “Unfortunately, Lord Robert’s brother, the Earl of Warwick, is not as handsome as he, for had this been so, Queen Mary could have married him and I myself could have become the wife of Lord Robert.”
“Your Majesty ought to marry him anyway,” Maitland replied, “and then when it shall please God to call you to Himself, you could leave the Queen of Scots heiress to both your kingdom and your husband; that way, Lord Robert could hardly fail to have children by one or the other of you.”
Elizabeth smiled again, but tightly. Not the tedious matter of her death again! Did Maitland expect her to die so soon? If she had anything to do with it, she would long outlive that simpering, empty-headed she-cat now queening it in Edinburgh.
She realized that she had gone too far now in what had begun as a malicious game of revenge. There was Cecil, praising Robert to the skies whenever Maitland hove into view. “Sir William, a better Protestant you could not find! And a man of many parts, talented in warfare, in learning, in statecraft.” Elizabeth had never thought to hear the like from Cecil’s lips, and eyed him suspiciously.
But Maitland was playing along! “A more proper and fit husband for my good mistress could not be found. This will indeed be a marriage made in Heaven!” Yet it was writ plain on his face that the proposition of Robert as a husband for his queen was nothing short of an insult. Those raised aristocratic eyebrows said in no uncertain terms that it was beyond belief that anyone would think that Mary would stoop to wed a commoner still under a cloud of suspicion on account of the death of his wife. Elizabeth wouldn’t have minded wagering that Maitland would say nothing to the Queen of Scots of how he had praised Robert. But Mary would hear of it, she did not doubt! Bishop de Quadra, that inveterate gossip, knew about it, and he would certainly tell King Philip, who was bound to mention it …
But wait a minute, she told herself, with a sense of abject relief—there was another contender for Mary’s hand, another English nobleman who would certainly be far more acceptable to her: Lord Darnley. He was just seventeen, a great, gangling lad with a supremely good opinion of himself and looks that could slay a maiden at fifty paces. What was more, he was Elizabeth’s own cousin on the Scottish side—his ambitious mother, the Countess of Lennox, was the daughter of her aunt, Margaret Tudor—and the royal blood of England ran in his veins. Henry VIII, in his wisdom, had excluded the Scottish descendants of his sister Margaret from the Act of Succession, believing that he was about to conquer Scotland and marry the infant Queen Mary to his son, Prince Edward. But the Scots had, not unnaturally, resisted his rough wooing, which consisted mainly of a vicious swathe of slaughter throughout the Scottish lowlands and the burning of Edinburgh. Yet there were those, even now, who held that Lord Darnley—whose legitimacy had never been in question—had a better claim to the succession than Mary Stuart; at least he’d been born in England!
That, in fact, was the chief drawback to Mary marrying Darnley. Let them unite their two claims and they could prove very dangerous adversaries indeed. Another was that Darnley was a nasty piece of work and spoiled rotten—which led to the third drawback, his scheming, doting lady mother, who was even now in the Tower for having plotted in secret to send him north and wed him to Queen Mary.
Hmm, thought Elizabeth. And hmm again. Darnley’s very nastiness could be used to her advantage. Give Mary enough rope, and she might hang herself. Elizabeth pondered. She doubted that Darnley had the brains to carry through any treasonable plan successfully, but even so, would it be wise to let him loose north of the border?
The matter needed much thought and delicate handling. For now, it was best to act as if there could be no question of Darnley marrying Mary. And in mooting Robert as a husband for her, Elizabeth had hit on the perfect way of showing the gangling boy and his adoring, meddling mother that she meant business. But she had now seen a way of rescuing both herself and Robert from the impossible situation she had created.
Pleased with herself, and feeling magnanimous as a result, she gave the order for Lady Lennox to be released from the Tower, on the strict understanding that there must be no more plotting to marry her spoiled boy to the Queen of Scots—ever.
Then, in June, Robert returned from Warwick, to find a court abuzz with gossip about his impending departure for Scotland and the nuptial couch of Mary Stuart.
“You said that you would look elsewhere,” Elizabeth said sweetly, biting into a great slice of tart. “I have but done your looking for you, and found you a great prize. You have my leave to go and claim it.” She was affecting nonchalance, but her heart was thudding disconcertingly.
Robert gave her a withering, desperate look. “I cannot believe that you have opened these negotiations without once consulting me,” he said, shaking his head. “Did it never occur to you that, my feelings for you aside, I might not want to leave England, this land that I love, and all whom I hold dear?”
“Robert, you and I must be above such considerations. It is because you love England that I know you will serve her well and faithfully in Scotland.”
“Bess, you know I would serve you anywhere, and my country. But is it all over between us, that you would send me from you?”
“It is far from certain that these negotiations will come to a happy conclusion,” she said, trying to still her raging thoughts.
“Is this another of your games?” Robert suddenly roared, his patience driven beyond endurance.
“I am above such things!” Elizabeth snarled. “How dare you question me, your queen, on policy!”
“Madam, I crave your pardon,” Robert said icily, executing an exaggerated bow. “And I also crave your leave to withdraw. You shall not find me importuning you again. With you, all is policy.”
“Wait, Robin!” she cried as he turned to go. “You cannot leave me thus.” Tears welled, to her immense chagrin.
“Why not?” His eyes were cold. “You promised to marry me; you led me on, then you offered me to another. What more have we to say to each other?”
“Robin, this business of the Queen of Scots …” She was really weeping now. “I admit it, I was jealous. But there is more to it than that. It is a cover for something else, which I cannot discuss, the matter is so secret. Believe me, Robin, I do not want to send you to Scotland. But I need to be seen pressing for this marriage.”
Robert paused. “And what of your promise—‘the word of a prince’?” She did not like the way he said that, but she supposed she could hardly blame him.
“I have not forgotten it, on my honor. Give me time,” she pleaded. “I will make it up to you, I swear. Trust me.”
He was not easily mollified. “How, Bess? What have you left to give but your hand in marriage? Or will you at last let me enjoy the one treasure you have withheld from me these past years? You know how I have longed for it. How do you think a man can live, drawing back at the last moment?”
“Robin, you think of one thing only!” Elizabeth sniffed, calmer now. “What would happen if you got me with child?”
“Then you would have to marry me, and stop playing games with the Queen of Scots,” he retorted.
“Oh, I see what you are about! No, Robin, it was not of the flesh that I spoke when I said I would make it up to you. It suits my policy, and my inclinations, to make you rich, a veritable prince!”
She had him there. She could tell by the gleam in his eye. She relaxed a little and moved toward him. “Would the lea
se of Kenilworth Castle make up to you for the things which, at present, you are denied?” she asked, knowing he had wanted that magnificent stronghold for a long time.
There was a long pause as Robert gave her a look that plainly said he thought she was buying him off. Then, to her relief, he smiled. With men it was all property and ambition.
“So, a castle instead of a crown,” he said at length. “But which crown? One I would willingly forsake for a castle; the other would be worth more to me than all the castles in the world. I think you take my meaning.”
“It is a token of my good intent,” Elizabeth told him. “It must satisfy you for now.”
He swallowed. “Do not think that I am not grateful for it. But when one has been promised the sun, one can only be dismayed to be given a star.”
“The sun is already shining on you,” Elizabeth chided him. “There would be many to agree with that. And who knows, sweet Robin, one day you may have sun, moon, and stars—and Kenilworth!”
He laughed at that. “You have not been impervious to my hints, Bess! By God, it is a castle fit for a king! And it is near my brother at Warwick.”
“You want it, then, my Eyes?” she teased him.
“Of course, sweet fool. You know I do!” And he drew her into his arms at last and kissed her soundly.
Robert had been pacified—for now. He was happily drawing up plans for grandiose improvements at Kenilworth, which sounded as if it would rival even Whitehall when it was completed. There would surely never be a castle in the world to touch it. He could not resist proclaiming to the world how bountifully the Queen had enriched him. All was well again. God was in His Heaven, and Robert Dudley was back in favor.
It was, of course, common knowledge now that he occupied sumptuous apartments next to Elizabeth’s in all the royal palaces. He acted as her co-host at many court entertainments and kept state like a prince, with his vast train of servants. His following grew, as more and more of those who perceived that his star was flying high sought his patronage.
Elizabeth spoke no more of his marrying the Queen of Scots; she was careful to keep her plans secret from him. When Thomas Randolph prepared to return to Scotland in that plague-ridden summer, which carried off her old adversary, Bishop de Quadra—toward whom she had actually come to feel rather affectionate—she instructed him to urge Mary to allow her good sister of England to choose a husband for her.
“If she consents, tell her I shall be as a mother to her, and will look into her right and title to be my next heir,” she promised, feeling anything but maternal toward her cousinly rival. “And then, Thomas, you will offer her Lord Robert Dudley.”
Randolph thought he understood. So this was why Dudley had been so publicly advanced lately. He was being groomed for the crown matrimonial of Scotland, for which, in Randolph’s humble opinion, he was in no way qualified. Good God, the man was born of a long line of traitors, he had probably done away with his wife, and he was—it had to be said, although not out loud, of course—Queen Elizabeth’s leavings. Heaven only knew what he and she had got up to together! The things he had heard … Randolph did not know how he would summon the courage to face Queen Mary and offer her Dudley. What an insult!
“It is asking too much of her,” he confided to Cecil. “It will debase such a noble lady to marry someone so inferior to herself.”
“Our good mistress does not view him in that light,” Cecil observed drily.
But now that good mistress, playing for time in her accustomed fashion, had summoned Randolph again. “I have changed my mind,” she told him. “You shall keep the Queen of Scots guessing whom I have in mind for her until I instruct you otherwise. That way she will be so busy wondering what we will offer that she will not pursue any foreign marriage.” Randolph’s shoulders sagged with relief. He could have kissed the Queen’s feet, only he feared a prickly response to such an uncharacteristically extravagant gesture.
Fate played into Elizabeth’s hands. That autumn the appalling Don Carlos fell ill.
“I hear that his condition is quite serious,” she told her council. “Certainly it will put an end to this present talk of a marriage between him and Queen Mary.” She picked up a letter. “And Randolph reports that Her Majesty is most intrigued by our offer to find her a husband.” Elizabeth had been gratified to read that pretty, brainless Mary had frequent crying fits and bouts of melancholy, which Randolph attributed—but not in so many words—to her need for a man in her lonely bed. “It seems that she is most eager to wed,” she went on. “Of course she wants an heir of her body”—her glacial glance swept the table in case any dared to say that she herself should too—“and she says that she is unsuited to the single life. Give her a few months of wondering, and she will fall into our lap like a ripe plum.”
But Cecil now had his eyes on other ripe plums. The Queen’s mention of heirs had spurred him to venture once more into dangerous territory. The very next day, he raised the matter of her own marriage—and just after she thought she had gotten away with avoiding all discussion of Parliament’s petitions.
“Madam, you have given your word to your Lords and Commons,” he reminded her, as Robert sat there looking for all the world like a cat about to plunge its whiskers into a great bowl of cream. Clearly he thought this was his moment. And in all fairness it really ought to have been, but Elizabeth just could not say the words.
“We are mindful of our promise,” she declared with an effort, not looking at Robert, “and we mean to look into the possibility of reviving negotiations for our marriage with the Archduke Charles.”
“God’s blood!” Robert roared, banging his fist on the table, as the other councillors stared at him, and then looked nervously at the Queen, wondering how she would react to this unacceptable loss of temper in her presence. But Robert was past caring about deference. “England does not want or need a Catholic king, or a foreigner,” he stormed. “Not when you have a zealous Protestant far nearer at hand. Why revive this marriage now?” His withering look said what, even in his fury, he dared not say aloud, which was that he knew Elizabeth’s promises to be worthless.
“The Emperor’s friendship would be more advantageous to the realm than my marriage with a subject,” she said, her voice cold.
“What matters,” intervened Cecil, “is that there are no further delays, and that Your Majesty marries soon. The negotiations with the Archduke dragged on an unconscionably long time before.” And no doubt you intend for them to do so again. He did not need to say it—nor, by his expression, did Robert.
“Good Spirit,” Elizabeth reassured him, “should the Archduke prove willing, I will be content to accept him.” Robert sat there shaking his angry head and biting his lip to stop himself from snarling at her. She was grateful they were not alone.
“Very well, madam, I will make another approach to the Emperor,” Cecil said briskly, in a tone that boded well for the speedy concluding of negotiations, and he hurried away to compose the letter before she could change her mind.
Robert did not come to Elizabeth’s bed that night. His fury was palpable, even through the dividing wall, and—which was hardly surprising—she did not sleep. The next morning, without asking her permission, he was away at dawn, galloping huffily north to inspect—and no doubt criticize—the works he had put in hand at Kenilworth. And there he stayed, sulking, for a week. Elizabeth refused to admit to herself how much she missed him.
He was back, glowering at the council board, by the time the Emperor’s response arrived. Cecil’s face was equally gloomy.
“It appears that his Imperial Majesty has not forgotten that Your Majesty formerly rejected his son,” Cecil told Elizabeth. “He has also heard rumors that you mean to marry my Lord Robert here.”
The tension in the room was unmistakable. Robert looked smug and Elizabeth went rigid in her chair.
“Maybe Your Majesty would like to make an approach to the Archduke yourself,” Cecil suggested helpfully.
“No
I would not!” Elizabeth snapped. “It is the Archduke’s place to make the approach. It is unthinkable that I, a maiden queen, should take the initiative.” She dared not look at Robert.
“Then I will approach my diplomatic contacts and see if the Emperor can be persuaded to agree to this,” Cecil offered. He did not feel confident of success. Indeed, he knew he had better warn the Archduke to proceed slowly, given that the Queen was much inclined to celibacy and would—as ever—take some persuading. Cecil, like Robert, was beginning to wonder if Elizabeth really would ever marry; and he was almost alone in surmising that she had never given herself to Dudley.
Maiden Queen indeed! Robert thought, not quite knowing how to express his fury. How long would Elizabeth go on making a public fool of him? There was only so much a man could stand, and he was damned if he would go to her bed while she trifled with his heart and his pride, and provoked and belittled him with her talk of marrying other men.
1564
The Emperor Ferdinand’s envoy, Herr Allinga, stood before the Queen, all obsequiousness and courtesy. Only Cecil and two of her ladies were in attendance. She sat on her throne inwardly fuming as both men praised to the skies the advantages of her marrying the Archduke, declaring all the good reasons for it—as if she had not heard them before. In truth, she was thinking of Robert, uncomfortably aware that she had gone too far this time.
She glared at Cecil and Allinga. “Gentlemen, you may as well save your breath, for I will never be induced by appeals to reason, but only by stern necessity. I have inwardly resolved that, if I ever marry, it will be as the Queen, not as Elizabeth.”
“I understood that Your Majesty was eager for the match,” Allinga said, looking completely bewildered, and clearly wondering what he was doing in England.
“I have always been eager for it,” she lied, “and it was the fault of your master, the Emperor, that the earlier negotiations broke down.” Cecil almost gaped at her in dismay. Was she trying to wreck all his stressfully negotiated diplomacy by offending his Imperial Majesty? It seemed, God help them all, that she was.
