My Enemy the Queen

The Frog Prince

Another crisis had arisen in my family. There had been a tacit understanding between Penelope and Philip Sidney that they would marry. Walter had dearly wished that this marriage should take place and he had mentioned it on his deathbed in Dublin.

Philip Sidney was an unusual man. He seemed almost ethereal and by no means eager for marriage and it might have been for this reason that the engagement drifted on.

I received a call from Francis Hastings, the Earl of Huntingdon, who had been appointed the guardian of my daughters.

Huntingdon was a man of great importance, largely because, on his mother's side, he was of royal descent, her ancestor being Edward's IV's brother, the Duke of Clarence; and because of this he had a claim to the throne and maintained he came before the Queen of Scots and Catharine Grey.

He was forceful and a strong Protestant, and there was a possibility that since Elizabeth seemed unlikely to provide the country with heirs, he could one day take the crown.

His wife, Catharine, was Robert's sister; they had been married at that time when Robert's father had been eagerly marrying his children into the most influential families in the land.

Now he came to see me and tell me that he considered it was time husbands were found for my daughters and he had an offer for Penelope. I pointed out that she had an understanding with Philip Sidney, but at this he shook his head.

"Leicester is out of favor and likely to remain so. An alliance with a member of the family is not the best for Penelope. Robert Rich has become enamored of her and offers for her."

"His father has just died, has he not?"

"Yes, and Robert has inherited the title and a very considerable estate. His name describes him well."

"I will test her feelings in the matter."

Huntingdon looked impatient. "My dear lady, this is a brilliant match. Your daughter should seize it gratefully."

"I doubt she will do that."

"She will, for she shall be made to. Let us be frank. She is your daughter and you do not stand high with the Queen. Whether Leicester will come back into favor we do not know, but the Queen has vowed she will never receive you. In these circumstances it would be well for your daughters to be safely married."

I saw the point of this and said I would broach the matter to Penelope.

Lord Huntingdon shrugged his shoulders impatiently, implying that consultation with the prospective bride was unnecessary. It was a good match, the best Penelope could hope for now that her mother was in disgrace, and it should be arranged without delay.

But I knew Penelope. She was no weak girl and would have decided views of her own.

When I told her of Lord Huntingdon's visit and its purpose she was stubborn.

"Lord Rich!" she cried. "I know of him and I do not want to marry him no matter what my Lord Huntingdon decrees. You know I am betrothed to Philip."

"You are of a marriageable age, and he has expressed no eagerness for it. Huntingdon points out that my disgrace will reflect on you and you should therefore be very ready to consider a good match while you can get one."

"I have considered it," said Penelope firmly. "I do not want to marry Robert Rich."

I did not pursue the matter, for I knew that would only increase her stubbornness. Perhaps when she grew accustomed to the idea it might not prove so repulsive to her.

There was great excitement throughout the country when the Duc d'Anjou came to Court. He arrived in a manner calculated to win the Queen's heart, for he came secretly to England accompanied by only two servants and presented himself at Greenwich, where he asked permission to throw himself at the Queen's feet.

Nothing could have delighted her more and her infatuation-assumed though it must have been—amazed everyone. There could have been few men as unattractive as this French Prince. He was very short—almost a dwarf—and when he was a child had suffered from a violent attack of smallpox which had left his skin badly scarred and discolored. The end of his nose had become enlarged and had split in two, which gave him a very odd appearance. In spite of this, being a Prince, a life of debauchery had been possible for him and he had indulged himself freely. He had refused to learn, so his education had been scanty; he was completely unprincipled and irreligious, ready to become a Protestant or a Catholic to fit the moment. What he did have was a certain charm of manner and an ability to flatter and insinuate his passion—and this appealed to the Queen. When he was seated low in a chair he resembled nothing so much as a frog, which the Queen was quick to notice, and with her passion for nicknames he soon became her Little Frog.

I was disappointed not to be at Court to see the farce of these two together—the little French Prince in his early twenties, repulsively ugly, playing the ardent lover, and the dignified Queen in her forties, languishing under his passionate gaze and utterances.

It must have been quite comic, but the implications were far from that, and there was not a man who had the interests of the Queen and the country at heart who was not dismayed. I reckoned that even Robert's greatest enemies felt it was a pity she had not married him and by this time given the country an heir.

Robert was obliged to attend Court, although he was in disfavor, and I sometimes wondered whether she put on this nauseating display to anger him. I heard that she had had an ornament made in the shape of a frog—it was of flawless diamonds—and she carried it with her everywhere.

For a few days the Duc rarely left her side and they walked in the gardens, laughing and chatting, holding hands and even embracing in public; and when the Prince returned to France it was with the certainty that the marriage would take place.

It was the beginning of October when she summoned her council to debate on her marriage and as Robert was still a member of that council he was present, so I had an account of what took place.

"As she was not there," Robert told me, "I was able to discuss the matter with freedom, and as a purely political venture. It seemed she had gone so far with the Prince that it might be difficult to draw back, and for that reason the marriage might be necessary. We all knew the Queen's age and it seemed hardly likely that she could have an heir; and if by some chance she did, she would endanger her life by doing so. The Queen was old enough to be the Duc's mother, said Sir Ralph Sadler, and, of course, that was something with which we all had to agree. However, knowing her temper, we thought it advisable to suggest the project be dropped, but compromised by asking to be informed of her pleasure and assuring her that we would endeavor to make ourselves conformable to it."

"She did not like that, I'll swear," I put in. "She wanted you to beg her to marry and give the country an heir, keeping up the illusion that she was still a young woman."

"You're right. She looked daggers at us all when we told her— and at me in particular—and said that some were ready to marry themselves but wished to deny that pleasure to others. She said we had talked for years as though the only surety for her was to marry and get an heir. She had expected us to petition her to proceed with the marriage, and she had been foolish to have asked us to deliberate on her behalf, for it was a matter too delicate for us. Now we had aroused doubts in her mind, and she would break up the meeting that she might be alone."

She had been in an evil mood that day, abusing everyone; and those whose duties brought them close to her person, I had no doubt, bore the worst of the brunt.

Burleigh called the council together and said that as she seemed so set on marriage perhaps they should agree to it, for her temper was such that whether they advised it or not, she would follow her own inclination.

Even then I could not believe she would marry the Duc. The people were against it, and she had always considered the people.

Robert said he had rarely seen her in such a mood. It seemed that the Frog had cast some spell on her. He must be a magician, for an uglier man few had ever seen. It would be ludicrous if she accepted him. The English hated the French in any case. Wasn't it the French who had supported Mary Queen of Scots and given her grandiose ideas about her claim to the throne? Elizabeth would be playing right into the hands of the French if she married. There could be a revolt in the country. It was true that Anjou was a Protestant ... at the moment. He was, everyone knew, like a weathercock. Fine today, raining tomorrow—only in his case it would be Catholic and Protestant. He turned with the wind.

We went to Penshurst to consult with the Sidneys what was best to be done.

There was a great welcome for us there. I had always been struck by the family loyalty of the Dudleys. Robert was greeted even more warmly now that he was in disgrace than he had been at the height of his popularity.

I remembered that Mary had left Court because she could no longer bear to hear her brother abused, and Philip had come to Penshurst for the same reason. He was a special favorite of the Queen. She had made him her cupbearer. But she had willingly given him leave of absence, for she had declared that he looked so sullen every time she let it be known how enraged she was at the conduct of that uncle of his that she wanted to box his ears.

Philip was beautiful rather than handsome. The Queen liked him for his looks and his learning, for his honesty and goodness; but of course the type of men who excited her were of a different kind.

Philip was deeply concerned about the marriage, for he said it would cause disaster if it took place, and it was decided that as he had the gift of words, it might be a good idea if he wrote his objections in a letter to the Queen.

So those days at Penshurst were spent in discussion. Robert and I would walk in the park with Philip and discuss the dangers of the Queen's marriage, and although I was firm in my insistence that she would never marry, they wavered in their opinions. Robert might be said to know her better than any—indeed he had been close to her—but I felt I knew the woman in her.

Philip shut himself in his study and at last produced the letter which was read by us all, commented on and, as we thought, toned down. In the end it read:

How the hearts of your people will be galled, if not aliened, when they shall see you take a husband, a Frenchman and a papist, in whom the very common people know this, that he is the son of the Jezabel of our age—that his brother made oblation of his own sister's marriage, the easier to make massacre of our brethren in religion... .

He was referring to Catherine de' Medici, who was known throughout France as Queen Jezabel, so hated was she; and to the Massacre of the St. Bartholomew, which had taken place when Paris was full of Huguenots for the marriage of Anjou's sister Marguerite to Huguenot Henri of Navarre.

As long as he is Monsieur in might, and a papist in profession, he neither can nor will greatly shield you, and if he grow to be king, his defence will be like that of Ajax's shield, which rather weighed down than defended, those that bare it.

The letter was delivered and we waited at Penshurst with trepidation.

However, another incident occurred which no doubt made Philip's letter less significant than it might have been.

John Stubbs flared into prominence.

Stubbs was a Puritan who had graduated from Cambridge and took an interest in literary pursuits. His hatred of Catholicism had led him into danger. He was so violently opposed to the French marriage that he published a pamphlet entitled: "The Discoverie of a gaping gulf whereinto England is like to be Swallowed by another French marriage, if the Lord forbid not the Banes by letting Her Majestie see the sin and punishment thereof."

There was nothing in the pamphlet disloyal to the Queen, whose humble servant Stubbs declared himself to be, but when I saw a copy of it I knew that it would infuriate her—not for its political and religious views but because John Stubbs had pointed out that the Queen's age would prevent the marriage's being fruitful.

So enraged was the Queen—as I had guessed—that she ordered the pamphlet to be suppressed and the men involved—the writer Stubbs and the publisher and printer—to be tried at Westminster. The three men were sentenced to have their right hands cut off, and although the printer was later pardoned and the cruel sentences carried out on the other two, it was Stubbs who distinguished himself by speaking to the assembled crowd and telling them that the loss of his hand would in no way change his loyalty to the Queen. Then the right hands of both men were cut off by a blow—from a butcher's knife with a mallet—struck through the wrist. As Stubbs's right hand fell off, he lifted his left and cried: "God save the Queen!" before he fell down in a faint.

That scene, when reported to her, must have shaken her; and, although at the time, I sometimes marveled with the rest at her seeming folly, when I look back I see the devious purpose of it.

While she dallied with Anjou—and she did so for a year or two —she was in fact playing a game of politics with Philip of Spain, whom she greatly feared; and it was to be seen with good reason. What she wanted most was to avoid an alliance between her two enemies, and how could France ally herself with Spain when one of her sons was about to become the consort of the Queen of England.

It was clever politics and those men about her could not see it until later; but then hindsight makes so much clear.

Moreover, during that time when she dallied with her Frog Prince and earned certain unpopularity with her people, she was sowing discord between the King of France and his brother; she was planning already—as was proved later—to send the erstwhile Protestant Prince to Holland, there to fight the battle against Spain for her.

This was for later. In the meantime she flirted and coquetted with the little Prince and neither he nor her courtiers and ministers understood her motive just then.

It was a wonderful day for Robert and me when our son was born. We called him Robert and made great plans for him.

I was contented for a while just to be with him, and I was delighted when I heard that Douglass Sheffield had married Sir Edward Stafford, who was the Queen's ambassador in Paris. It was Edward Stafford who had carried out the negotiations for the proposed marriage between Elizabeth and Anjou and his handling of these matters had won the Queen's approval.

He had for some time been in love with Douglass, but her insistence that a marriage had taken place between her and Leicester had made it impossible for them to marry. Now that my marriage with Robert was common knowledge, Douglass—acting in a manner which was typical of her—married Edward Stafford, thereby tacitly admitting that there could never have been a binding marriage between herself and Robert.

This was deeply gratifying, and as I sat with my baby in my lap I promised myself that all would be well and in due course I should even regain the Queen's favor.

. I wondered what Elizabeth would feel when she knew that Robert and I had a son, for I was sure that she longed for a son even more than she did for a husband.

I heard from friends at Court that she had received the news in silence, which had been followed by a bout of ill temper, so I guessed the effect it had had on her; but it was a shock to learn of what action she intended to take.

It was Sussex again—that harbinger of ill tidings—who brought the news to us.

"I fear there is trouble ahead," he told Robert, not without some satisfaction. "The Queen is asking questions about Douglass Sheffield. It has come to her ears that she has a son named Robert Dudley and that she declared he was the legitimate son of the Earl of Leicester."

"If that were so," I demanded, "how can she call herself the wife of Sir Edward Stafford?"

"The Queen declares it is a mystery which she is now determined to clear up. She says that Douglass is the daughter of a great house and she cannot allow it to be said that she has committed bigamy in her marriage with her ambassador."

Robert said firmly: "There was on my part no marriage with Douglass Sheffield."

"The Queen thinks it maybe otherwise and she is determined to have the matter sifted for the truth."

"She may sift but she will find nothing."

Was he braving it out? I was not sure. He certainly seemed shaken.

"Her Majesty says that she is of the mind that there was such a marriage, in which case your present marriage is none at all. She says that if indeed you married Douglass Sheffield, you will live with her as your wife or rot in the Tower."

I knew what this meant. If it were possible she was going to wrest my triumph from me. She wanted to prove that my marriage was no marriage and my son a bastard.

Oh, those were anxious days for me. Even now I tremble with rage when I recall them. Robert assured me that she could not prove that a marriage had taken place, for it had not, but I could not entirely believe him. I knew him well and that the overweening emotion of his life was ambition; but he was more virile than most men and when he desired a woman that desire could, temporarily, override ambition. Douglass was the sort of woman who would cling to her virtue—although she had become his mistress —and it may have been because of the child she was to have that she had successfully pleaded with him to marry her.

But now we had a son—our own young Robert—and I told myself that his father, who was adept at removing obstacles from his path, would surely be able to eliminate evidence of a marriage, if such there had been. No son of mine should be branded a bastard. I would not stand aside and allow the Queen that satisfaction. I was going to confound her malice, prove her wrong and let this be another victory for her She-Wolf.

Sussex informed us that the Queen had commissioned him to get to the truth of the matter. She was determined to know whether, in fact, a marriage had taken place. We had a good ally in Sir Edward Stafford, who was deeply enamored of Douglass and was as earnestly concerned in proving there had been no marriage between Douglass and Robert as we were.

Douglass, it seemed, wanted to defend what she called "her honor"; and of course she was fighting for her son. That was a point in our favor. Leicester, as a family man wanting legitimate sons, was, it was said, hardly likely to disclaim one as bright and intelligent as Douglass's Robert.

We waited in trepidation for the result of the inquiry. Douglass was questioned by Sussex, and it was disconcerting to remember how much Sussex disliked Robert, for we were sure that he would be delighted if he could bring a case against us.

Douglass insisted, under cross-examination, that there had been a ceremony when she and Leicester had plighted their troth in a manner which she considered binding. Then, it was said, she must have some document; there must have been some settlement. No, said silly little Douglass, there was nothing. She had relied on the Earl of Leicester and had trusted him completely. She wept hysterically and begged to be left alone. She was now happily married to Sir Edward Stafford, and the Earl of Leicester and Lady Essex had a fine boy.

Then, it would seem, Sussex was forced to declare that what had taken place between Lady Sheffield and the Earl of Leicester was no true marriage and in that case Leicester had been free to marry Lady Essex when he did.

When the news was brought to me I was overcome with joy. I had been terrified on account of my son. Now there was no doubt that the little boy in the cradle was the Earl of Leicester's legitimate son and heir.

While I was rejoicing in my good fortune I could also enjoy the Queen's discomfiture. It was reported to me that when she heard the news she stormed and raged, called Douglass a fool, Leicester a rogue, and me a ravening she-wolf who roamed the world seeking for men whom it could destroy.

"My Lord Leicester will rue the day he ever took up with Lettice Knollys," she declared. "This is not an end of that affair. In time he will have recovered from his besotted folly and feel the She-Wolf's poisonous fangs."

I might have trembled to realize the hatred I had aroused in our all-powerful lady, but somehow I found it stimulating, especially now that I knew I had got the better of her again. I could picture her fury, and that it was mainly directed against me exhilarated me. My marriage was secure. My son's future was protected. And the mighty Queen of England—although she had exerted all her power to do so—could not take that from me. Once again I was the victor.

I could come out into the open now that there was no need to skulk behind secrecy, and I turned my attention to my husband's magnificent residences and determined to make them even more grand. They should all exceed the splendor of the Queen's places and castles.

I refurbished my bedchamber in Leicester House, installing a walnut bed, the hangings of which were of such grandeur that no one could look at them without gasping. I was determined that my bedchamber must be more splendid than that set aside for the Queen when she came visiting the house. I remembered that when she came I should have to disappear—either that or she would refuse to come at all. And if she came I knew her curiosity would impel her to see my bedchamber, so I spared nothing in making it beautiful. The hangings were of red velvet, decorated with gold and silver thread and lace; everything in the room was covered in velvet, silver and gold cloth; my night stool was like a throne. I knew she would be furious if she saw it all. And she would certainly hear about it. There would be plenty of malicious hands ready to stoke up the fires of her hatred against me. All the bed linen was decorated with Leicester's crest, and very fine it was; we had rich carpets on the floors and walls, and what a joy it was to dispense with the rushes which in a short time became ill-smelling and full of lice.

Robert and I were happy. We could laugh together behind the elaborate curtains of our bed at the clever way in which he had married me in spite of all the obstacles against us. I referred to the Queen when we were alone together as That Vixen. After all she was as cunning as a fox; and the female of the species was more wily than the male. As she called me the She-Wolf I called Robert My Wolf, and he retaliated by naming me his Lamb, for he said that if the lion could lie down with that sweet creature so could the wolf. There was little that was lamblike about me, I reminded him, and he said that was true as far as the rest of the world was concerned. The joke persisted, and whenever we used these nicknames the Queen was never far from our thoughts.

Our little son was a joy to us both and I began to revel in my family, not only because I was devoted to them but because the Queen, for all her splendor, must feel the lack of sons and daughters.

There was, however, a certain sadness in the house which was brought about by Penelope. She had stormed and raged for a time, declaring her opposition to the marriage with Lord Rich. Lord Huntington would have had her beaten into submission, but I would not allow this. Penelope was very like myself—beautiful and high-spirited; in any case to have beaten her would have strengthened her resistance.

I reasoned with her. I pointed out that this marriage with Lord Rich was the best thing that could happen to her at this time. The family was in disgrace—particularly myself—and my daughter would never be received at Court, but if she became Lady Rich and the wife of such a man, that would be a different matter. She might feel that she would prefer a life in the country to marriage with a man she did not love, but she would change her mind when the boredom set in.

"I cannot say that I was wildly in love with your father when I married him," I confessed, "but it was not an unsuccessful marriage, and I have you children through it."

"And you were very friendly with Robert during that marriage," she reminded me.

"There is no harm in having friends," I retorted.

That made her somewhat thoughtful, and when Lord Huntingdon came once more to talk sternly to her, she relented.

She was married to Lord Rich, poor child. I was sorry for her and for Philip Sidney, although he had been somewhat lackadaisical and prepared to drift along without coming to any conclusion. Now he seemed stunned and I heard that he referred to Lord Rich as a coarse illiterate fellow. The marriage certainly brought him out of his lethargy and his relationship with Penelope changed from that time. He started to write verses to her and about her and according to them Penelope was the love of his life.

However, most people said how fortunate she was in view of the fact that her mother was in dire disgrace and the Queen still put out with her stepfather, who, many believed, would never regain his old footing with her.

At that time I believed that the Queen might in time relent towards me, for she certainly did towards Robert. After a few months he gradually began working his way back into favor. Her affection for him never ceased to astonish me. I think she still cherished romantic dreams about him, and when she looked at him she still saw the handsome youth who had been with her in the Tower instead of the aging man he was becoming, for he was putting on weight rather alarmingly, his face was too ruddy, and his hair seemed to whiten a little each week.

One of Elizabeth's greatest virtues was her fidelity to old friends. I knew she would never forget Mary Sidney's nursing, and every time she saw that sad pockmarked face, pity and gratitude welled up within her. She had arranged a marriage for young Mary Sidney with Henry Herbert, the Earl of Pembroke, and although he was twenty-seven years older than his bride, it was considered a very worthy match by all.

Robert was one who would always have a place in her heart, and if there were occasions when he was ousted there would always come the time when he would be reinstated. The truth was, she loved Robert, and she always would. Thus it was no great surprise that before six months had passed he was back in favor.

Alas, the same did not apply to me. I heard that the very mention of my name was enough to send her scarlet with rage and made her again swear in anger against the She-Wolf.

The vainest woman in the country could not forgive me for being more physically attractive than she was and for marrying the man who, in her heart, she had always wanted for herself. There were times when her anger flared up against him—this was largely due to his preference for me—but he was never really perturbed, for he knew that if her affection could survive his marriage it would outlast anything.

It is difficult to convey this charm of Robert's. It was a magnetism, and it was as potent now that he was aging as it had been in his youth. No one could be absolutely sure of him; he was an enigma. His manner was so charming and courtly, and he was always gracious to servants or those in a menial position, and yet that sinister reputation had clung to him since the death of Amy Robsart. There was a sense of power about him, and it may be that this was the essence of his attraction.

He was adored by his own family, and it was a fact that, as soon as my children knew him as their stepfather, they accepted him wholeheartedly. They were at greater ease with him than they had ever been with Walter.

It amazed me that he, who was so ambitious and full of determination to take up every advantage, should have so much time for the affairs of his family.

At this period Penelope was most unhappy. She often visited us at Leicester House and would pour out her wretchedness on the failure of her marriage. Lord Rich was coarse and sensual; she could never love him; she was most unhappy and longed to come home.

She was able to talk to Robert, who was so kind and understanding. He told her that whenever she felt so inclined she must regard his home as hers; and he forthwith suggested that she have one of the rooms decorated to her taste. It was to be known throughout the house as Lady Rich's Chamber and whenever she felt the need for refuge it was waiting for her.

She recovered a little of her spirits when she was with Robert and chose patterns for the hangings in her room and took an interest in the making of them. I was grateful to Robert for being a father to my unhappy daughter.

Dorothy loved him too. She had watched what had happened in Penelope's case and told Robert that she would never let it happen to her. She was going to choose her own husband.

He said: "I'll help you in it and we'll make a grand marriage for you—but only if you approve it."

She believed him, and both the girls looked forward to the times when he was with us.

Walter was fond of him, and it was Robert who made plans for my son to go to Oxford when he was older, which would be in a few years' time.

There was one member of the family whom I greatly missed. This was my favorite among all my children—my son Robert Devereux, Earl of Essex. How I wished that he could be with us, and how I deplored the custom of taking sons from their homes, particularly those who, through the death of their father, had inherited great titles. It was hard to think of my darling as the Earl of Essex—he would always be little Rob to me. I was certain that the other Robert, my husband, would have had a special interest in Essex, but alas, the boy was at Cambridge now, where he was to take his Master's degree. I had good reports of him from . time to time.

As for yet another Robert—our baby son—Leicester doted on him and was already making plans for his future. I said jocularly that it would be difficult to find a place for him at Court because his father thought nothing was good enough for him. "Nothing but a royal princess will be suitable to be his bride," I commented.

"We must find one for him," said Robert, and I did not realize then how serious he was.

Leicester was as popular with my family as he was with his own brothers and sisters; it was comforting, particularly in view of the Queen's obsessional hatred towards me, to feel myself in the midst of an affectionate family.

Because I was out of Court—though Robert was fast creeping back to his old position—the family rallied round me even more than usual, and Robert's nephew, Philip Sidney, became a very frequent visitor.

He walked in the gardens of Leicester House in the company of Penelope, and it occurred to me that there had been a change in their friendship. He had, after all, at one time been betrothed to her, but he had never seemed eager for marriage, and I had often thought it had been a mistake to mention it when he was twenty-two and Penelope but a child of fourteen. Now she appeared before him as a woman—and a tragic one at that—which made her seem attractive to a man of his nature. Her dislike of her husband was growing into hatred, and she was ready to turn to the handsome, elegant, brilliant young man whom she might so easily have married.

It could seem as though a dangerous situation was brewing, but when I mentioned it to Robert, he said that Philip was not a man to indulge in lusty passion, but to dream of romantic love. He would doubtless write verses to her and that would be where his devotion would lead him, so we need have no fear of Penelope's breaking her marriage vows. Lord Rich would be incensed if she did, and Philip would know this. He was certainly not a violent man; he consorted with people like the poet Spenser, for whom he had a great regard; he loved the play and took a special interest in the company of players, known as Leicester's Players, who, in the days before Robert's decline, performed regularly for the pleasure of the Queen.

The fact was that, having lost Penelope to Lord Rich, Philip did conceive a great passion for her and began to write poems to her in which he referred to himself as Astrophel and Penelope as Stella; but everyone knew of whom he wrote.

It was a situation which could be dangerous but I saw what it meant to Penelope. She blossomed again, and life became tolerable to her. She resembled me and I think that no matter what befell us, if we could find ourselves at the center of dramatic events, the excitement would carry us along.

So while she shared her husband's bed—and she told me that he was a demanding husband in the bedchamber—she indulged in this romantic attachment with Philip Sidney, and she grew more beautiful every day. I could not help but be proud of my daughter, who was known as one of the most beautiful women at Court.

The Queen regarded her as Lady Rich rather than Penelope Devereux, that "She-Wolf's Cub," and she was causing a stir wherever she went. She was able to report to me what was happening at Court and how her stepfather was doing everything he could to further her advancement.

I must confess that I grew irked as time passed. It was a sadness for me to be outside the magic circle; but I was still told that whenever my name was mentioned, the Queen would fly into a rage, so it seemed unlikely that I could get back just yet. Even Robert had to tread very cautiously, and many a warning look was flashed at him from the tawny eyes. It was a time to take care.

The Duc d'Anjou came back to England to renew his courtship. Robert was worried because when Elizabeth was walking in the gallery at Greenwich with the Duc, before the French Ambassador, she said that they should marry.

"It was very disturbing," Robert told me, "and if it had been anyone but Elizabeth it would seem that she had in truth accepted him. Of course she had been fussing over him and caressing him in public. It is as though some spell has been cast upon her and she cannot see what others do. The little man is uglier than ever, for it is hardly to be expected that time would add to his beauty. He is more like an odious little frog than ever, yet she pretends to see great beauty in him. It is repulsive to see them together. She towers above him."

"She wants people to compare them and see how much more beautiful she is in spite of her age and his youth."

"It is a ludicrous sight—like a farcical play. The Country Wedding is not half as comic as the Queen and her French suitor together. But there in the gallery she actually kissed him and put a ring on his finger and told the French Ambassador that she would marry him!"

"Then surely she is committed."

"You don't know her. I had a meeting with her, and I demanded to know whether she was his mistress already. She replied that she was the mistress of us all, and I asked bluntly if she was still a virgin. She laughed at me and gave me a push—but a friendly one—and said: 'I am still a virgin, Robert, in spite of many attempts by men to induce me to change that happy state.' And she pressed my arm in a strange way and said: 'My Eyes should have no fear.' And I took it that she meant that she would not marry him after all. I believe she will now begin to extricate herself from this dilemma into which she has placed herself."

Of course that was what she did; and while she was confiding to her ministers that it had been necessary to gain time and keep the French and the Spaniards guessing, she would, with their help, evade the issue; but in the meantime, for the sake of appearance, they might start drawing up the marriage contracts.

I was so piqued because I could not watch her close at hand. I should have loved to have seen her frolicking with her Frog, declaring the happiest moment of her life would be on their wedding day, when all the time her sly, quick mind was seeking the most effective exit. She wanted the people to believe that Anjou was madly in love with her—not for what she could bring him but because of her enchanting person. It was strange that while so occupied with the political side of the issue, she could have such thoughts; but those who believed this impossible did not know Elizabeth.

Robert was delighted. He genuinely deplored the French match, but at the same time he could not have borne it if she had married someone else after refusing him. It amused me to see how the personal element was always present in these two, who were, I supposed, the most important people in my life. I watched myself with the same dissecting calm, I hoped, and I usually found more than one motive behind my own actions.

Robert reported that the Queen had sent a message to Anjou to the effect that she was afraid of marriage because she believed that if she entered into that state she would not have long to live, and she was sure that her death was the last thing he wanted.

"The little man was confounded," said Robert. "I think he is at last realizing that it will be no different with him than with the others who have sought her. He broke into furious lamentations when he heard this and taking off the ring she gave him, threw it away. Then he forced his way into her presence and said that he saw she was determined to deceive him and had never meant to marry him, at which she showed great concern, sighing deeply, declaring that if only these matters could be left to the heart, how much more pleasant life would be. He replied that he would rather they both died if he could not have her, and she then accused him of threatening her, which made him burst into tears like the silly little man he is. He blubbered that he could not endure that the world should know she had jilted him."

"And what did she do then?"

"She merely gave him her handkerchief with which to wipe his eyes. Ah, it is clear, Lettice, that she has no intention of ever marrying him and never had. But she has let us in for a fine bit of trouble, for now we have to placate the French, which will not be an easy task."

How right he was. The ambassadors of the King of France had already arrived in England to congratulate the couple and make the final arrangements for the marriage. When the true state of affairs was realized, the French Ambassador threw the Council into a state of panic by declaring that since the Duc d'Anjou had been insulted by the English, the French would ally themselves with Spain and that would not be a very pleasant prospect for the English.

Robert told me that the ministers had conferred together and the general opinion was that the matter had gone too far for them to draw back now. The Queen received them and demanded to know whether they were telling her that she had no alternative but to marry the Duc.

She had played with fire and if they were not careful a few fingers were going to be severely burned. She said there must be a way out of the situation, and she would find it. The marriage terms were discussed and the French showed themselves eager to comply with her demands, and in desperation she suddenly made the announcement that there was one clause which was vital to her agreement, and that was that Calais should be returned to the English crown.

This was—and she knew it—outrageous. Calais—which her sister Mary had lost—had been the last stronghold possessed by the English, and in no circumstances would the French allow the English to get a foothold in France again. They must have realized at last that she was playing with them; and the situation then became fraught with danger.

She knew it better than anyone and she found an answer. The Spaniards were a menace. The little Duc was in one of his Protestant phases at the time and there would eventually have to be a confrontation with the Spaniards. The Queen firmly believed that such an encounter could more happily take place outside her realm; and as the Netherlands had sent out repeated calls for help, it might be a way out of a difficult situation to kill two birds with one stone by giving the Duc d'Anjou a sum of money to go to the Netherlands and conduct a campaign against the Spaniards there.

Nothing could be calculated to annoy Henri III of France and Philip of Spain more than that, and it would keep the little Prince's mind from matrimonial matters.

Languishing, as he said, with love for her, Anjou at length allowed himself to be persuaded to go to the Netherlands. Proudly she showed him her dockyard at Chatham, and the sight of so many fine ships impressed him greatly, but no doubt increased his desire to be her husband and master of them; and as she continued to show great affection for him he must have felt that this was still not an impossibility.

Robert came to me and told me what had happened. It deeply concerned him, he said, for she had told the Duc that as a mark of her great esteem, she was going to send with him, to escort him to Antwerp, a man whose presence at Court had always been more important to her than that of any other.

"You, Robert!" I cried.

He nodded.

I sensed the excitement in him, and I think my feelings for him began to change in that moment. He was back in favor; and I knew then that the ruling passion of his life—now as ever—was ambition. She, my royal rival, could give him what he craved. I was not a woman lightly to take second place.

He was glad to go to the Netherlands, even though it meant leaving me, because he saw opportunities there, and the fact that the Queen was sending him to be close to Anjou showed that she trusted him.

They were together again—my husband and his royal mistress. I might be the one his senses sought, but she was the one his head told him to follow, and even greater than his physical need was his ambition.

He did not notice that certain coldness in my manner. He went on excitedly: "You see what she has been doing? She has been holding off the French all this time and now she has succeeded in getting Anjou to fight her battles for her."

His eyes were shining. She was a great woman, a great Queen. Moreover, all the tenderness she had shown to her Little Frog was devious politics. There was only one man whom she had ever loved enough to make her temporarily forget expediency and that was Robert Dudley.

He was hers to command. She had forgiven him for his marriage and was going to keep him with her. The marriage was unimportant. She did not want to marry him, in any case. But she was going to take my husband from me whenever she could. He was going to be reinstated as her favorite man and his wife was going to be denied the Court. This was her revenge on me.

I felt the cold anger rise within me. No, I was not a woman to be set aside lightly.

Of course he was passionately loving and assured me that he was going to hate leaving me, but already in his thoughts he was in the Netherlands, seizing what advantages he could there.

It was February when he left England. The Queen accompanied the party as far as Canterbury. I could not go because my presence would be repulsive to her.

I heard, though, that she took a fond farewell of my Robert, and talked to him very sharply because she feared he might eat or drink more than was good for him and not take enough care of himself. He caused her great anxiety by his thoughtlessness, she was heard to say; and she would recall him and put him into dire disgrace if she heard reports of ill health caused through lack of care.

Oh yes, she was still in love with him; and although she announced that she would give a million pounds to have her Little Frog swimming in the Thames, it was Robert of whom she was thinking.