by Alison Weir
How she made it up the stair to her rooms she did not know. Once there, she dismissed her ladies and paced up and down, rereading the letter, scarce knowing what she was doing. It was hard to take in, that she had lost him to another. She still could not believe it. Did he not know how much she had loved him, and still did love him, God help her? As for that bitch Lettice, she wanted to claw her eyes out and mar that perfect beauty, so that Robert would never have any more pleasure in her. That conjured up the thought of them lying together, sharing that pleasure, which made her cry out in agony. Weeping torrents, she sank to the floor, beating her breast.
It was an hour before she managed to compose herself. By then the white heat of her anger had cooled a little, but she was still spitting fire at the enormity of what Robin had done, and she would tell him so, yes, she would go right now and do that, and let him know how deeply he had hurt and displeased her, and that nothing would be the same again, ever.
She pulled on her cloak, taking care to draw its voluminous hood down over her ravaged, reddened eyes. Then she hastened down the stair and out through the gardens to the private landing stage. Here she commandeered her barge and had herself rowed to Leicester House on the Strand, where she alighted at the jetty. Ahead stood the large, imposing mansion that Robert had recently built for himself, complete with an Italianate campanile—and all by royal favor, the ungrateful traitor. No doubt he had built it for her, Elizabeth thought viciously as she made her solitary way up the path through the lawns.
She had been seen. His servants came running, and when they saw who it was, come alone to see the master, they gaped and subsided into hasty bows. Then they escorted her indoors and led her up the massive oak staircase to the great chamber. And there was Robert, regarding her as a mouse looks when cornered by a particularly menacing cat, before remembering to make an elegant obeisance. Of that woman there was no sign.
As soon as the door closed and they were alone, Elizabeth sprinted across the room in three strides and slapped Robert across the face. “How could you?” she cried, all her pent-up anguish bursting forth.
Clapping his hand to his inflamed cheek, he looked at her, stupefied. “Because there was no hope for us,” he said sadly. “These twenty years I have loved you, Bess, and cherished the constant hope that you would do me the honor of becoming my wife. But you made it plain, again and again, that you did not want me, and that your fears of marriage were such that you hated to contemplate it.” His tone grew more urgent. “Bess, I have given up my youth and my prime waiting for you, and you, in turn, have seen fit to reward my humble service amply.” He waved his hand to encompass the richly appointed room. “But a man needs a wife in his bed and he needs an heir—and those things you could not give me. I do not blame you, but I think you now owe it to me to let me snatch some happiness while I can, for I am not as young as I was.”
“I thought you loved me,” Elizabeth said, tears starting from her eyes at hearing him confirm in words that he was lost to her.
“And so I do!” Robert protested. “My marriage has not diminished my love for you. But you and I know that for years we have been more like brother and sister than lovers. You know too that I will always be utterly devoted to you.”
Elizabeth could not answer. She was too distressed. She was remembering all the times he had begged and importuned her to marry him, and all the times she had refused, or kept him waiting for one of her answers answerless. Regret and remorse flooded her heart. If only the clock could be put back … And yet, if she had it all to do again, would she do it differently? Would not her answer be the same? She was not like other women; she was a damaged thing, and she was the Queen. And remembering that, she knew she must retrieve her composure before she made a fool of herself. This man before her was a subject; he had merely married a wife, as noblemen did. It was no crime, and nothing to get worked up about. She should bravely have smiled her approval and retained her pride. Well, she would play her part properly now. Besides, it was late; the sky was growing dark, and she had to get back to Whitehall.
“Nothing has changed,” Robert said, looking at her with great compassion. She bridled. She did not want his sympathy, not when he was about to bed his trollop—his pregnant trollop. No doubt that had been the reason for this furtive marriage.
She glowered at him. “No, nothing has changed, my lord. You will attend me at court as before. Where is your—wife?” She had not wanted to say the word, lest it make what had happened more true.
“She is at Wanstead,” Robert said.
“Wanstead?”
“Aye, I have bought Wanstead Hall from Lord Rich.” It was a former royal residence, and very fine, as she recalled. Elizabeth hated to think of that woman, her victorious rival—and all the more deadly for securing her victory in secret—living in such state. Well, the battle might be won, but the war was by no means over!
“That is as well for her, then,” she said. “You may tell her that she has incurred my severe displeasure, since she has married without my permission, which, as the widow of an earl, she was bound to seek. You can tell her also that she will not be welcome at court again.”
Robert opened his mouth to protest, but quickly closed it. If he was hoping that she would change her mind when she’d had time to calm down and reflect, he had best think again!
“I understand why you feel as you do,” he said, holding out his hands to her. She ignored them.
“You understand nothing!” she snapped. “I shall look for you at court when you are recovered.” She laid heavy emphasis on the last word, hoping to shame him for lying to her. “I bid you good evening, my lord.” And she left without a backward glance.
When she got back to Whitehall, she sent a message of apology to Mendoza, telling him she could not see him to resume their conversation because she was unwell. Then she crawled into bed and gave herself up to grief.
The next day, in council Elizabeth ordered that an envoy be sent immediately to France to reopen negotiations for her marriage to the Duke of Anjou. Robert was not present. He had sent a message begging to be excused, saying that his illness obliged him to travel north to Buxton again to take the waters. Elizabeth thought it was more likely that he had gone to Wanstead to be with that woman. She had never felt such hatred toward one of her sex—not even the Queen of Scots—as she now felt for that viper Lettice.
“You should know, gentlemen, that my lord of Leicester has married Lady Essex,” she announced, her face a mask of disapproval. Twenty faces turned to stare at her.
“He had your permission, madam?” Burghley asked gently.
“Yes, of course,” Elizabeth lied. No one should know how he had deceived and hurt her.
Robert stayed away for two months. Probably, she reasoned, he was giving her time to acclimatize herself to the situation. More likely he was enjoying his honeymoon, the bastard. But old habits died hard—or not at all. Despite herself, she worried that he really was ill, and that the waters were not proving of any benefit. Then she would torture herself with thoughts of him romping in bed with that woman at Wanstead, as he had romped with her in happier times, only going further … all the way, with no one to say nay to him. She bit her lip. She could not bear to think of it.
Hatton saw how miserable she was and attempted to cheer her by flirting outrageously. As he steered her into the dance one evening, he murmured in her ear, “There is only one woman that I would ever marry, and it is yourself, fair Eliza.”
“You are very presumptuous, my Lids,” she chided him, trying to smile all the same.
“You know you have my undying adoration,” Hatton vowed, his dark eyes full of intent. “To serve you is Heaven; to lack you is more than Hell’s torment.”
Such devotion! Suddenly tears filled Elizabeth’s eyes and she gripped his hand tightly. “I could not bear it if you ever betrayed me as my lord of Leicester has by marrying someone else, especially as he too swore undying loyalty to me.”
“Is that
the reason for this great and continual melancholy?” Hatton drew her into a window embrasure to give them a little privacy and allow her time to compose herself. “Great Queen, marry me, and learn what true devotion is! I swear I will make you happy again. I worship at your feet! Let me worship at the altar of Hymen!”
“Christopher, I do not want to marry!” Elizabeth burst out, punching Hatton in the ribs. “Marriage can only be injurious to me, and you, dear Lids, are like the rest. You want me for my crown.”
Hatton was taken aback by such brutal candor. “I protest, madam, that my love for you overrides all else. It is unnatural for a man not to marry, and indeed it is against the law of God. Were you to have me, I would be the happiest soul alive!”
“Alas, faithful Lids,” she said, smiling weakly, “I am done with men.”
She perked up considerably whenever letters arrived from Robert. She had missed him unbearably during his absence, and deeply regretted their quarrel. So what if he had married? That woman was never coming to court, so he was right—nothing need change. She would have as much of him as before, and more, if she had anything to do with it. She would keep him at her side for as long as it pleased her, and be damned to that other, whom she refused to name, even to herself.
“Write and tell him,” she commanded Hatton, “that his absence has been too long-drawn-out. I would that he does as his physician says, but if the waters of Buxton do not cure him now, he is not to encumber himself and me with such long journeys in the future.” That should reestablish who was in command, and what was expected of Robert. It was his queen’s wishes that counted, not his wife’s. And it should be clear to him that he was to behave toward her as if nothing had changed. That way she could permit him to remain her favorite, as before. She doubted that the pain of his betrayal would ever go away, but this way it was manageable—and she might even find that, one day, she could forgive him. For now, however, she would make life difficult for him, and give him cause to rue his ill-considered marriage.
Her bad mood persisted. She snapped and grouched at her councillors all that summer and lashed out in temper at her hapless maids. Everyone knew why, and that did not improve her humor, because she liked to be seen as being in command of herself. Robert, back at court and finding it virtually impossible to obtain leave to go home and support Lettice through a difficult pregnancy, felt as if he was treading on eggshells. He had made a decision never to mention his marriage in Elizabeth’s hearing, but still it lay between them like a dividing sword. Gone was the intimacy of their past friendship; rarely now did they share jokes or correspond when apart, unless it was on official business. Instead Elizabeth found herself losing her temper over silly things, berating Robert with her sharp tongue, and waxing obstinate when he came asking for favors.
It did not help that she was suffering from an excruciating toothache, the result of eating too many sweet delicacies. Her poor face was inflamed, and she would sit in council rocking with the pain, biting on a clove, and pressing a hot, damp cloth to her cheek. Often she would not attend meetings at all, which sometimes brought the business of the realm to a standstill.
Her councillors clucked soothingly, but they had a kingdom to run and some matters were pressing.
“Madam, about the French marriage—” Walsingham began.
“Not now!” Elizabeth rapped.
“Then maybe we should discuss our shipbuilding program,” Burghley said quickly. “Philip’s fleet grows by the day.”
“The marriage is the more pressing matter,” Walsingham persisted. “It could be years before the armada is ready to sail.”
“Did you hear what I said?” Elizabeth screeched, bending down swift as quicksilver and throwing her pointed slipper at him. “By God, you wearisome Moor, you deserve to be hanged for your impertinence!”
Walsingham had ducked and escaped injury. He straightened himself and regarded her evenly. “Then, madam, I ask only that I be tried by a Middlesex jury. They are notoriously lenient these days.”
Even Elizabeth, in agony as she was, had to smile at that. But the pain persisted, preventing her from sleeping. Finding her moaning in misery in her privy chamber, Robert—who had come in response to a peremptory summons to discuss the threat from the Netherlands—knelt beside her, as of old, and soothed her, rubbing her angry-looking cheek and fetching more cloves and wet compresses.
“Bess,” he said, reverting without thinking to his familiar name for her, “you will have to have this tooth pulled. You have been suffering for months.”
“Yes, I have been suffering for months,” she retorted. She was not talking about toothache.
Resolutely he ignored that. “It must be taken out,” he repeated. “Shall I send for the barber-surgeon?”
“No!” she cried.
“Bess, it will be over in seconds, and that is surely much better than the terrible pain you are experiencing.”
“No!” she repeated. “I do not want to lose my teeth. King Philip has had most of his out, I hear, and now he has to live on slops!”
He let it rest there. He stayed with her through the night, trying to distract her by reading to her and comforting her when the pangs became too hard to bear. It seemed, miraculously, that they had slipped effortlessly into their former companionship, and he was glad of that, although his thoughts kept straying to Lettice at Wanstead. He missed her so much, and he was tired, unutterably tired, and craving his bed. But he was so deeply relieved to be restored to a better footing with Elizabeth that he was happy to put up with that.
In the morning, groggy from lack of sleep, he left Elizabeth slumbering at last. As he passed out of her apartments he met the Bishop of London, come to take morning service in the Chapel Royal. He liked Bishop Aylmer, a stout Protestant like himself, and mentioned that the Queen was unwell and might not be able to attend.
“What ails Her Majesty?” the bishop asked, all concern.
“Toothache,” Robert told him. “She has had it for months, but will not suffer the tooth to be pulled.”
“I sympathize,” Aylmer said. “I too have been suffering. Hmm. Listen, I have a suggestion.”
That afternoon, as Elizabeth sat listlessly cradling her cheek in her presence chamber, where musicians were doing their best to distract her with the sublime melodies of Phalèse and Mainerio, and her courtiers were standing around impatiently waiting for her to rouse herself and notice them, Bishop Aylmer was announced.
“You are welcome, Bishop,” she said, rousing herself. “My lord of Leicester informed me of your coming.” Leicester and Aylmer exchanged complicit glances.
“Your Majesty, I come to express my sympathy for the trouble with your tooth,” the bishop began. Elizabeth looked at him wrathfully. “I too have toothache,” he persevered, “and I am told that Your Majesty fears to have your tooth extracted. Well, fear not. I have brought with me a barber-surgeon, who has agreed to take out my tooth in Your Majesty’s presence, so that you may see that there is nothing dreadful about it.”
“He is a brave man,” Robert murmured to Sussex.
“Rather him than me,” Sussex muttered. “I’m not sure what I’d fear more—Her Majesty’s countenance or the pincers!”
Elizabeth was biting her lip and frowning. “Very well, Bishop,” she said at length. “Show me.”
The waiting barber-surgeon was fetched from the antechamber, and a chair was set on the floor. The barber-surgeon placed a cushion over its back, and the bishop laid his head on it and opened his mouth wide. As Elizabeth looked on with morbid fascination, the barber-surgeon produced an alarmingly large pair of iron pliers, which he used to grip the offending molar. There was an excruciating crack, and the bishop’s hands tightened on the arms of the chair, but he did not make a sound, even though the surgeon had to use some force to pull out the tooth before holding it aloft in triumph. His patient stood up rather shakily, wiped the blood from his mouth, and bowed to the Queen.
“And now, madam, will you let this
fellow take out your own tooth?” Robert asked.
Elizabeth was about to refuse, but a vicious shaft of pain made her change her mind.
“We will,” she capitulated, and signaled her ladies to follow her and the barber-surgeon into her privy chamber, where the operation was finally performed with very little fuss.
The tooth was gone but her bad mood remained. Even the best efforts of Ippolita the Tartarian and her fellow fools could not rouse Elizabeth, nor could the little black boy whom she kept in her privy chamber, dressed in wide breeches and a jacket of black taffeta and gold tinsel; he tried capering about in his usual comic fashion and juggling balls in the air, but she regarded him listlessly.
She had no excuse now to refuse to see her councillors, but when next she took her seat at the head of the board, it was to find them united against her.
“Madam, you must act to prevent the Duke of Anjou from leading a French army into the Netherlands,” Burghley insisted. “I urge you to marry him now. We are of one mind on this.”
Robert took it upon himself to speak for them all, as he did increasingly these days. “Your Majesty cannot afford any delays,” he said bluntly. “I speak as a faithful and true subject when I say that there must be no dithering, no procrastination, and no stalling. This marriage must go ahead. Our very security depends on it.”
“Be silent,” Elizabeth snapped, furious at his presuming to tell her what she must and must not do. As for faithful and true subject … he was one to talk!
“My lord of Leicester speaks truth,” Hatton ventured, only to have the Queen turn her head away. The meeting ended in a stalemate.
Robert tried a new tactic—or rather, redeployed an old one. He went home to Leicester House and took to his bed, feigning sickness. It was a ploy that had worked before, and he was confident it would bring Elizabeth hastening to his side. But she stayed stubbornly away, and when he finally got bored of waiting and returned to court, her manner toward him was chilly.
