The Marriage Game: A Novel of Queen Elizabeth I

by Alison Weir

  He was overjoyed when he learned that a stalemate had been reached. Once more Elizabeth requested that the Archduke come to England to be inspected. This time, the Emperor would not hear of it. She had insisted it would be the Emperor’s responsibility to finance the Archduke’s household; he was adamant that it was hers. She had declared that she could never marry anyone of another faith; the Emperor would not hear of any religious compromise.

  And it was at this juncture that the news came winging into England that the Queen of Scots had married Lord Darnley.

  “She has broken all her promises!” Elizabeth raved. “She has subverted religion in her realm! The Scottish lords are in rebellion, to a man. What a stupid fool she is! Anyone with half a brain in their head would make peace with them without delay. Write to her and say so!”

  Back came the furious reply: “Her Majesty desires her good sister to meddle no further.” Worse still, Mary had had Throckmorton arrested for refusing to accept a safe conduct from Darnley as King of Scots.

  “I have every cause to meddle, as she puts it!” Elizabeth shouted. “Darnley is my subject, and I have the right to recall him to England to answer for his disobedience. Mary should have insisted that he obey me, then negotiated with me for the marriage. That would have been the proper way to go about things. Instead, she goes ahead and marries him without my permission!” Immediately she extended the hand of friendship to Mary’s half brother, the Earl of Moray, head of the Lords of the Congregation.

  One July evening, as she was sitting alone in her chamber brooding on Mary’s perfidy, Kate Knollys came to her.

  “Madam, forgive my intrusion, but we are worried about Mrs. Astley.”

  Elizabeth rose. “Worried? Why?”

  “I think Your Majesty should see her for yourself.”

  Elizabeth hastened through the gallery to her privy chamber, where she found her ladies and maids clustered around Kat, who was slumped on a bench.

  “What’s wrong, Kat?” she barked, fear making her sharp. Kat moaned, and Elizabeth knelt before her and tilted her chin upward. To her horror, she saw at once that her old governess’s face was distorted on one side, the eye and mouth looking as if they were sliding downward.

  She grabbed Kat’s hand. “Squeeze!” she commanded, but the hand lay limp in hers. “Kat, speak to me!”

  Kat tried to speak but could only make unintelligible sounds.

  “Blessed Jesus, send for the doctors!” cried Elizabeth. “Hurry!” Two women sped away as the rest waited anxiously. Still on her knees, the Queen rocked Kat in her arms, patting and stroking her back to soothe her. She could sense the fear imprisoned in the older woman’s damaged body. And then she felt Kat grow quiet, and hoped that she was comforted.

  Dr. Huick arrived within minutes. He bent down and raised Kat from the Queen’s embrace, but as he did so her heavy body slumped sideways, her head fell back and her hood dropped to the floor. Her eyes were open, staring.

  Elizabeth was inconsolable. Kat had been her beloved friend and confidante; she had been as a mother to her since her childhood. It was no comfort that Kat had died in her arms; all she could feel was the horror of it. Those sightless eyes—eyes that would never again light up in joy at the sight of the motherless girl she had loved, that would never again dim in reproach because that girl had disappointed her. Her life had been devoted to Elizabeth’s welfare; there would never be one such as her again. And it was for this that Elizabeth wept—and wept again.

  Her grief was made all the worse because Robert was not there to assuage it. They had not shared a bed in weeks, and his pride, smarting because of her latest delaying maneuvers, made him keep a resentful distance. He was giving her the space she had said she wanted, and it was doing neither of them any good. Oh, how she missed his tenderness, the physical closeness of him! She was weary of the marriage game; she just wanted the masculine kindness that only her Eyes could give, especially now, when she was feeling so low.

  But then, burdened by anger and grief and regret, she saw him flirting with pretty Lettice Knollys, her own cousin (and, though no one said so openly, her niece). Lettice was the daughter of her beloved Kate Knollys; aged twenty-two and married to Walter Devereux, Viscount Hereford, these five years, she now served as lady-in-waiting alongside her mother in the Queen’s household, and Elizabeth had become close to her. She had doted on the exquisite creature, who so much resembled herself with her flame-colored hair and spirited character. But Lettice had a beauty few could match, with her slanting green eyes and her air of seductive allure; even Elizabeth had to admit that this kinswoman, ten years younger than herself, was incomparable. And because Lettice was of her own blood, and dear Kate’s child, she had felt little jealousy, only a sort of maternal protectiveness. But now Robert was flirting with the girl, and henceforth there could be no looking at Lettice without seeing her as a rival.

  Kate Knollys had also seen what was going on. “Madam, dear coz, do not take this seriously,” she urged. “Gossip has it that my lord of Leicester was put up to it by Sir Nicholas Throckmorton, in order to discover whether or not you are serious about marrying him.”

  “Pah!” Elizabeth snorted. “Mary should have kept Throckmorton in prison! How dare they play with me!”

  In retaliation she began to flirt outrageously with one of Robert’s friends, handsome young Thomas Heneage, a member of her privy chamber, who was reasonably safe because he was married. Heneage, seeing preferment and riches winging his way, was suitably—and indeed flatteringly—gratified by his queen’s apparently amorous attentions, and repaid them ardently in kind, usually when Leicester was looking on, or so it seemed to the latter.

  Robert had indeed intended to give Elizabeth a jolt, hoping that when she saw him paying court to another lady, she would suddenly realize that she had been a fool to keep him waiting for an answer—or anything else, for that matter. But there was no denying the charms of Lettice Knollys, with her seductive eyes and pouting lips. He did not think it would take him long to wheedle her into his bed; by all accounts she had little love for her dull husband. It was comforting—even liberating—to know that he could desire another woman. It was also distancing; he realized that Lettice was now occupying part of the space in his mind that Elizabeth had filled. It felt as if he had been unfaithful. He was not sure if he liked the feeling.

  He knew he still wanted Elizabeth—the woman he thought of as his, and who was indeed his, more than she was any man’s—when he saw her flirting with that dolt Heneage, who was supposed to be his friend. He exchanged harsh, insulting words with Heneage; he warned him off, only to have the fool laugh in his face. The courtiers were smiling behind their hands to see them at loggerheads, two rampant dogs after a bitch in heat. Unendurable!

  Robert stood before Elizabeth, looking wounded. She regarded him coolly. “Yes, my lord?”

  “I ask Your Majesty’s permission to go and stay at my own house, as other men do.”

  “No,” she replied.

  “I will not stay here to be your lapdog,” he said.

  “You will do as I command!” she snapped.

  “But there is no place for me here. You love another.”

  “You are a fine one to talk!” she screeched. “Making eyes at that jade Lettice. Don’t think I haven’t seen you.”

  “It is a flirtation, nothing worse than any of those you have enjoyed with your many suitors,” Robert flung back. “Now you know how it hurts!”

  “So you did it purely to hurt me?” Elizabeth blazed. “You are despicable!”

  “One who has a glass head should beware of stones!” Robert could not resist retorting. He knew he had gone too far, but it was too late now to retract.

  “Go away!” she cried. “I will not sully my eyes with the sight of you! Go!”

  He went. He tried, twice, to make it up with her, only to be dismissed by her ladies, on her explicit orders. Three days later she was still sulking. After that she departed scowling to Windsor,
where she finally summoned Robert to attend her in private. By then he was too incensed to guard his tongue, so his audience was brief.

  “I am touched that you have condescended to see me, madam!” His voice was heavy with sarcasm. “I can only conclude that you have indeed cast me aside for another!”

  “Remember that I could say the same about you!” she retorted. “Indeed, seeing how little you care for me, I am sorry for all the time I have wasted on you. Get out!”

  Their row had been overheard and was now the subject of common gossip. Even Cecil, on being told how Elizabeth had said she was sorry for the time she had wasted on Robert, commented, “And so is every good subject!” The courtiers were laughing at him, Robert knew, and he took occasion to upbraid one or two for it, and had another run-in with Heneage just to make himself feel better. But he was soon to regret it.

  When next he showed his face in the crowded presence chamber, Elizabeth glared at him. “My lord of Leicester,” she cried, “I hope you are here to make answer for yourself. It has come to my attention that you have been high-handed with one of my servants, Master Heneage. God’s death, my lord, I have wished you well, but my favor is not so locked up in you that others shall not enjoy it! And if you think to rule here, remember this, that I will have but one mistress—and no master!”

  The whole court was looking at him, gloating, enjoying his humiliation. He wished he had not come and that he was elsewhere—anywhere; even the Tower would be a welcome refuge. What could he do? Matters had deteriorated so badly between himself and Elizabeth that they had incomprehensibly become queen and subject instead of lovers and friends. He knew, with a leaden heart, that his only chance of regaining her favor was to humble himself; and so, setting aside his pride, he fell to his knees and begged her pardon, as sincerely as he could. She grunted none too graciously and would not look at him.

  Humility was now the watchword of his days. He stayed skulking in his lodgings for the next week. He sent no message to an offended Lettice, having resolved not to pursue her anymore. When he did finally venture forth into the court, he took care to blend into the background, to dress elegantly but not showily, and to speak of the Queen with elaborate courtesy and deference. Then he learned that Heneage had been sent away from court, and his heart began to sing once again.

  A day later, incredibly, miraculously, he received a summons from Elizabeth, conveyed by Cecil.

  “This state of affairs cannot go on,” the Secretary said. “My lord of Sussex and I put in a word for you. You see, you are our only hope.” He smiled ruefully. “Things have come to an impasse with the Archduke. France is out of the running. Heneage, thank God, has gone home. If Her Majesty is to marry, she must make a decision soon. We are all weary of the delays, and, most important of all, there is the succession to consider. She knows you, my lord—you do not have to pass inspection—and you are a good Protestant. I know we have had our differences, but I am prepared to back you if she will have you.”

  “William, I am deeply humbled,” Robert said, surprised. He knew that Cecil had never had a high opinion of him, but it seemed that he had changed his mind, which left him feeling immeasurably more cheerful.

  “No need for thanks,” Cecil said. “You face no easy task, as we both know. Now get yourself in there and make a beginning.”

  Elizabeth was alone in her closet, working on one of her translations—Plutarch this time. She looked up as Robert entered, her face unreadable. Only her fingers, pleating the fabric of her skirt, betrayed her nervousness.

  “You sent for me, madam,” he said, rising from his bow, his face as impassive as he could make it.

  “Yes, Robin.” Her use of her private name for him was encouraging. She sounded weary and dejected as she looked at him. “I think we have both been fools.”

  “I have been the greater fool,” he admitted. “You were right, my Queen: I carried on that flirtation to test you.”

  “So Cecil persuaded me. But Robin, it hurt me. I could not bear the thought of you with another.” Elizabeth’s eyes filled with tears. “After all we have been to each other …” Her voice tailed off. He could see that she was deeply distressed.

  He knelt beside her, feeling unduly emotional himself. “Can you forgive me, Bess? Is there any way that I can make it up to you?”

  She laid her head on his doublet, trembling, her shoulders heaving. He clasped her tightly and held her until the storm subsided. The nearness of her, the feel of her in his arms, brought home to him forcibly what he had so nearly lost. He realized that his own cheeks were wet.

  “I have asked too much of you,” he murmured into her hair.

  “And I of you,” Elizabeth whispered. “It is not natural for a man to wait so long for a woman to make up her mind. But I am not as other women, Robin. The horrors in my past rise always before me. I do not think that I can truly give myself to any man. And I don’t know what to do!” She burst into a fresh torrent of weeping.

  Her cry was from the heart; there was no mistaking it. Robert swallowed. He was seeing his life stretching before him, one long frustration of waiting and endless delays, a future without the fulfillment of marriage and children, or even of sexual release—unless of course he risked all by indulging in covert affairs, which would be a betrayal of the woman he loved and might well lead to storms, as he had just experienced, or worse. He saw his hopes of a crown foundering on Elizabeth’s uncertainties and fears; it came to him forcibly that she might never marry.

  “You don’t have to do anything,” he assured her gently. “I will always love you, and I will always be ready to do you any service. If you want to marry me, I am here. If you do not, I am still here.” They were the most selfless words he had ever uttered, and he realized—with some surprise—that he meant them unreservedly.

  Elizabeth wept anew at his words. “I do not deserve such kindness,” she sobbed. “I have been terrible to you.”

  “True,” he agreed, trying to smile. “I think that we have been terrible to each other. But now, my Bess, we will be kind, and show ourselves to the world in unison.”

  She drew away and touched his cheek, a brave smile on her face. He had never seen her so vulnerable.

  “Friends again, sweet Robin?” she asked.

  “Friends forever,” he replied, and kissed her hand.

  Some days later they went hunting in the Great Park, accompanied by a select group of courtiers. Robert was none too pleased to see Heneage among them, or to see Elizabeth showing the young man marked favor, but he was mollified by her warm attentions to himself. She did truly seem determined to show the world that they were close once more, and he reciprocated in kind, gratified to be enjoying the deference and envy of his peers—and the discomfiture of his rival.

  As dusk fell they dismounted. It was a balmy summer evening, perfect for a walk along the North Terrace with its spectacular views over Eton College and the valley of the Thames, followed by a stroll around the labyrinthine paths of the pretty garden below it, their attendants following at a discreet distance. Presently they encountered Silva and an Italian envoy taking the air with several other gentlemen. Silva hailed the Queen with a courtly bow.

  “Good evening, Your Excellency,” she said, smiling graciously.

  “Your Majesty,” he smiled, “this is a pleasure.”

  “It is indeed,” Elizabeth beamed. “I would know if you have made progress with the Imperial ambassador. You said that you might put pressure on him and his master to have the Archduke come to England.” Silva had said no such thing, but Elizabeth was determined to play it her way. No Archduke, no marriage. She knew that he would never come.

  Silva looked at her mischievously. “I wonder if Your Majesty has noticed anyone you have not seen before among these gentlemen.” He indicated the men of his suite, waiting a respectful few feet away. “Could you be entertaining more than you know at your court?”

  Elizabeth was dumbfounded. Robert had rarely seen her so nonplussed. He ca
ught the panic in her eyes. She was casting them from man to man, frantically trying to place them all, looking to see if any resembled the Archduke’s portrait. He could not be here! she was telling herself. He dare not be here! It would flout every law of protocol.

  Then she realized that Silva, that grave-faced Spaniard, was laughing. She was so hugely relieved that she took his little joke in good part and joined in.

  “It might be no bad idea for the Archduke to visit me incognito,” she said lightly. “Would his dignity allow it, do you think? I promise you, plenty of princes have come to see me in that manner.” She smiled archly.

  Robert’s ears pricked up. That was news to him. Then it dawned on him: she was bluffing, of course. It was the kind of provocative remark she liked to make. Well, he hoped she was bluffing!

  “I do declare I am feeling well disposed toward marriage,” she was saying.

  “Then, madam, let us hope for a happy outcome,” Silva replied.

  The Queen of Scots had spent her honeymoon raising an army and marching on her rebel lords, who had fled into England. Moray, Elizabeth learned, was on his way to her court.

  “I cannot be seen to be succoring traitors who rebel against their lawful Prince,” she told her council, in something of a panic.

  “But these are good Protestants, madam,” Cecil reminded her.

  “Yes, and I am sympathetic to their objections to this ill-advised marriage,” Elizabeth said. “But rebellion is treason. This is not the way to go about putting things right.”