My Enemy the Queen

The Countess of Leicester

SO I was a widow. I cannot pretend to have been smitten by sorrow. I had never been in love with Walter, and since I had become Robert's mistress I had deeply regretted my marriage, but I had had some affection for him, I had borne his children, and I could not help feeling a certain melancholy at his death. I did not brood on this, for thoughts of what my freedom would mean filled me with an excitement which overwhelmed all other feelings.

I could hardly wait to see Robert. When he did come, he came in secret as before.

"We shall have to tread warily," he warned, and a cold fear gripped me. Is he trying to evade marriage now? I asked myself. And there was one question which kept coming into my mind: How was it Walter had died so fortuitously? Dysentery, it was said. Many had died of it and in such cases there were always suspicions. I lay awake asking myself if it really was an irony of fate or whether Robert had played some part in it. What would the outcome be? I was uneasy, but as eager for Robert as ever. No matter what he did, nothing could change that.

It was I who broke the news of their father's death to the children. I summoned them all to my apartments and, drawing young Rob to me, I said: "My son, you are the Earl of Essex now."

He looked at me with wide, bewildered eyes, and my love for him overwhelmed me. I held him close and said: "Robert, my dearest, your father is dead, and you are his heir because you are his eldest son."

Robert began to sob and I saw tears in Penelope's eyes. Dorothy was crying too and little Walter, seeing the distress of his brother and sisters, broke into loud lamentation.

I thought, in some amazement: So they truly loved him.

But why should they not? When had he ever been anything to them but a loving father?

"This will make a difference to us," I said.

"Shall we go back to Chartley?" asked Penelope.

"We cannot yet make any plans," I told her. "We must wait and see."

Robert looked at me apprehensively. "If I am the Earl now, what shall I have to do?"

"Nothing yet. For a time it will not be much different from what it would have been if your father were here. You have his title but you still have your education to complete. Don't be afraid, my darling. Everything will be all right."

"Everything will be all right!" The phrase kept ringing in my ears, mocking me. I might have known it would not be so.

The Queen sent for me. Always sympathetic to the grief of others, she received me warmly.

"My dear cousin," she said, embracing me, "this is a sad day for you. You have lost a good husband."

I kept my eyes lowered.

"And you have the welfare of your children to occupy you. So your young Robert is now the Earl of Essex. A charming little fellow. I hope he is not too miserable at this loss."

"He is heartbroken, Madam."

"Poor child! And Penelope and Dorothy and the young one?"

"They feel the loss of their father deeply."

"Doubtless you would wish to leave Court for a while."

"I am so uncertain, Madam. Sometimes I think I want the peace of the country in which to mourn and at others it seems unbearable. Everywhere I look there I am reminded of him."

She nodded sympathetically.

"Then it shall be left to you to do what suits you best."

It was she who sent Lord Burleigh to me.

There was something reassuring about William Cecil, now Lord Burleigh. He was a good man, by which I mean that he more often acted for the sake of what he considered right than out of hope of advancing himself—something which could be said of very few statesmen. Of medium height and somewhat thin, he gave the impression of being smaller than he was; he had a brown beard and rather large nose, but it was his eyes with their hint of kindliness which were reassuring.

"This is a very sad time for you, Lady Essex," he said, "and Her Majesty is much concerned for your welfare and that of your children. The Earl was very young to die and leave children who are still in need of his care. I know it was his wish and yours that his son Robert should come into my household, and, I shall be happy to receive him whenever you think it fitting to send him."

"Thank you. He will need a little time to recover from his father's death. Next May he is to go to Cambridge."

Lord Burleigh nodded approvingly. "I hear he is a clever boy."

"He is well versed in Latin and French and enjoys learning."

"Then he should do well."

So it was arranged, and I felt that this was best because I knew that even aside from his brilliance Lord Burleigh was a kind and indulgent father to his own children and—that rarity—a good and faithful husband.

I suppose it was inevitable that rumors would begin to circulate. Whoever had told Walter of my relationship with Robert would be rekindling that gossip now that my husband was dead.

Robert came to me in a state of some anxiety and insisted that we talk. He told me then that it was being suggested that Walter had been murdered.

"By whom?" I asked sharply.

"Need you ask?" replied Robert. "Whenever anyone dies unexpectedly and I am on terms of acquaintance with that person, I am suspected."

"So people are talking about us!" I whispered.

He nodded. "There are spies everywhere. It seems I can make no move without its being recorded. If this gets to the Queen's ears ..."

"But if we marry she would have to know," I pointed out.

"I shall break it to her gently, but I would not like her to hear it through anyone but myself."

"Perhaps," I said sharply, "you would rather we said goodbye."

He turned on me almost angrily. "Don't dare say such a thing! I am going to marry you. Nothing else will satisfy me. But just now we have to be careful. God knows what Elizabeth would do if she knew I were contemplating this. Lettice, they are going to open Essex's body to look for poison."

I dared not look at him. I did not want to know the truth if it implicated Robert. I kept thinking of Amy Robsart at the bottom of that staircase in Cumnor Place and Douglass Sheffield's husband, who died just as he was about to divorce his wife. And now ... Walter.

"Oh God," I said, and I was praying, "I trust nothing will be found in him."

"Nay," said Robert comfortingly, "nothing will be found. He died a natural death ... of dysentery. Essex was never a strong man and Ireland did not suit him. However, I think it would be a good plan if you went back to Chartley for a while, Lettice. It might help to stop the gossip."

I could see that he was right and, after having received the Queen's permission, I left Court.

It was a great relief when I received the news that nothing had been found in Walter's body to suggest that he had been hastened to his death.

He was brought to England, and the funeral took place at the end of November at Carmarthen. I would not allow young Robert to make the long journey, for he was suffering from a cold at the time and he was in such low spirits that I feared for his health.

Lord Burleigh wrote to him assuring him that he was now his guardian and would welcome the time when he could receive him into his household, where he would be prepared for Cambridge.

I said that he should go after the Christmas holidays and that seemed agreeable to him.

I was in a state of expectancy. Obviously I could not marry Robert until a certain time had elapsed, for to hurry into marriage would set the tongues wagging again, which was the last thing we wanted. It would be necessary for us to wait for a year, I supposed. But we could accept that, for we should see each other in the meantime, and as soon as my son had left for Lord Burleigh's establishment I intended to take up my position at Court.

How long and dreary those winter days seemed! All the time I was wondering about Robert and what was happening at Court; and immediately after the Christmas holidays were over, I and my family—with the exception of young Robert—set out for Durham House.

A few days after my arrival I received a call from a lady I should have preferred not to see. This was Douglass Sheffield, and the story she had to tell gave me great misgivings.

She had asked that she might speak to me in secret, as she had something of moment to tell me.

There was no doubt that she was a very attractive woman and this fact made her story alarmingly plausible.

"I felt I must speak to you, Lady Essex," she said, "because I think you are in urgent need of advice. So I have come to tell you what happened to me in the hope that, when you have heard, you will realize the need to be cautious in your dealings with a certain gentleman of the Court."

"No one can overhear us, Lady Sheffield," I said coldly, "so there is no need for you to speak anything but openly. To whom do you refer?"

"To Robert Dudley."

"Why should you wish to warn me against him?"

"Because I have heard rumors."

"What rumors?" I tried—I fear not very successfully—to look surprised.

"That you and he are intimate friends. It is impossible for such a man to have friendships without its being talked of ... in view of his relationship with the Queen."

"Yes, yes," I said somewhat impatiently, "but why should I be warned?"

"Any lady should be warned whose name is coupled with his, and I should feel it my duty to tell her of what happened to me."

"You have already spoken of this to me."

"Yes, but I have not told you everything. The Earl of Leicester and I were contracted in '71 in a house in Cannon Row in Westminster, but he was reluctant to go through with the marriage for fear of the Queen's displeasure. When I became pregnant I urged him to marry me and he did at Esher at the end of '73."

"You have no witnesses of this," I said defiantly, seeing, if it were true, all my dreams of marriage evaporating.

"As I told you once before, Sir Edward Horsey gave me away and Dr. Julio, the Earl's physician, was present. Later my boy was born. He is Robert Dudley after his father. I can tell you that the Earl is proud of his son. His brother, the Earl of Warwick, is the boy's godfather and takes a great interest in him."

"If this is really true, why is his existence kept a secret?"

"You know full well the position with the Queen. She hates any man of whom she is fond to marry—most of all Robert Dudley, the favorite of them all. It is solely on account of the Queen that my son's existence is kept a secret."

"But if he is so proud of his son, I should have thought..."

"Lady Essex, you understand full well. I have not come here to argue with you but to warn you, for it would seem to me that the Earl of Leicester has transferred his affection from me to you and now has come the time for us both to beware."

"Pray come to the point, Lady Sheffield."

"The Earl of Leicester has spoken to you of marriage, but how can he marry you when he is married to me? I have come to tell you that he has offered me seven hundred pounds a year if I will disavow the marriage, and if I do not accept this offer he will give me nothing and withdraw himself from me completely."

"And what was your answer?"

"I emphatically refused. We were married and my son is legitimate."

Even as she spoke her voice quivered and the tears came into her eyes. I was sure that Robert would always get the better of such a woman.

But what if her story were true? And I could not believe she had made it up, for she did not seem to have the wit for that.

I said to her: "Thank you for coming along to warn me, Lady Sheffield, but I must tell you that you should have no fear for me. I know the Earl of Leicester, it is true, but I am recently bereaved of a good husband, and I can think of nothing at this time but my loss and my family."

She bowed her head in sympathy. "Then you must forgive me.

Forget what I have said. I had heard rumors and I felt it was my duty to tell you the truth."

"I appreciate your kindness, Lady Sheffield," I told her, and conducted her to the door.

When she had gone I could drop my display of indifference. I had to admit that the story seemed plausible. I kept reminding myself that Robert desperately wanted a son to bear his name. He was no longer young, for he must be forty-five years of age and if he was to get a family he must do so now. Yet he already had this son and disowned the boy's mother. This was for my sake. I must remember that.

I could not wait to see Robert and as soon as I had an opportunity I tackled him with what I had discovered.

"So she came here," he cried. "The fool!"

"Robert, how much truth is there in this?"

"There was no marriage," he said.

"But you were contracted to her. She says there were witnesses."

"I did promise her that we might marry," he admitted, "but the marriage never took place. The child was born and he is my child. He is in the guardianship of my brother Warwick and in due course he will go to Oxford."

"She said you offered her seven hundred pounds a year to deny the marriage."

"I offered her money to stop talking."

"If she is your wife, how can we be married?"

"I tell you she is not my wife."

"Only the mother of your son."

"Young Robert is my baseborn son. What am I expected to do? Live like a monk?"

"What indeed ... kept dancing as you are by Her Majesty. 'I will...' 'I won't...' Poor Robert! How many years has it gone on?"

"A good many, but this is going to be the end of it. You and I are going to marry in spite of everything."

"In spite of the Queen and your wife Douglass. Poor Robert, you are indeed a shackled man!"

"Don't taunt me, Lettice. I shall defy the Queen. As for Douglass Sheffield, she deceives herself. I tell you, there is no obstacle from that quarter."

"So there is no just cause why you and I should not marry?"

"None whatever."

"Then for what do we wait?"

"Until this talk about Walter's death has died down."

I allowed myself to be persuaded, because I wanted to.

The Queen's manner towards me made me a little uneasy, and I wondered whether she had heard the rumors about Robert and me. I found her eyes on me at odd moments, rather speculatively. This could have meant that she was wondering how I was bearing up in my widowhood, for she did take a great interest in the emotional problems of those about her—particularly members of her own family.

"Robin is rather sad at this time," she told me. "He is a man much devoted to his family and I like that. It shows good feeling. As you know I have a fondness for the Sidneys, and I shall never forget dear Mary and the way in which she nursed me, and the terrible affliction which came to her because of it."

"Your Majesty has always shown her the utmost kindness."

"I owe it to her, Lettice. And now, poor woman, she has lost her eldest girl. Ambrosia died this February. Mary was stricken with grief, poor woman. She has her dear boy, Philip, though, and a comfort he must be. I rarely saw a more noble-looking creature than Philip Sidney. I shall tell them to send their youngest daughter—Mary, named after her mother—to me and I shall give her a place at Court and find a husband for her."

"She is but fourteen, Madam, I believe."

"I know, but in a year or two we might marry her. There's Henry Herbert, now Earl of Pembroke. I have been thinking of a wife for him. I daresay he would please the Sidneys—and the young lady's uncle, the Earl of Leicester."

"I daresay," I said.

Very shortly after that Mary Sidney came to Court. She was a beautiful girl with amber-colored hair and an oval face. Everyone commented on her likeness to her brother, Philip, who was recognized to be one of the best-looking men at Court. It was true he lacked the lusty virility of men like Robert. His was a different kind of attractiveness—an almost ethereal beauty. Young Mary Sidney had this too and I did not think it would be difficult to find a husband for her.

The Queen made much of her and I was sure this brought about some consolation to the family. Towards me, Elizabeth kept up that special attention, but I continued to remain unsure of what lay behind it. Often she would mention the Earl of Leicester to me—sometimes with a teasing affection as though she were aware of certain frailties in his nature but loved him nonetheless because of them.

I was very close to her at this time, being in her bedchamber, and she would often talk to me about the garments she would wear. She liked me to take them out and hold them up against myself, so that she could get an idea of what they looked like.

"You are a handsome creature, Lettice," she told me. "You resemble the Boleyns."

She was thoughtful, and I guessed she was thinking of her mother.

"You will doubtless marry again in due course," she said once, "but it is early yet. But you'll soon grow out of your widowhood, I'll trow." I did not answer and she went on: "Every fashion is white on black now—or black on white. Do you think it is becoming, Lettice?"

"For some, Madam. Not for others."

"And on me?"

"Your Majesty is fortunate that you only have to put a garment on to transform it."

Too far? No, her courtiers had conditioned her to accept the grossest flattery.

"I want to show you the handkerchiefs my laundress worked for me. Get them out. There! Black Spanish work edged with bone lace of Venice gold. What do you think of that? And there are some tooth cloths—coarse Holland, which is the best for the purpose, decorated with black silk and edged with silver and black silk."

"Very good, Madam." I smiled at her, revealing my perfect teeth, of which I was very proud. She frowned slightly; her own were showing signs of decay.

"Mistress Twist is a good soul," she commented. "There is a great deal of work in those items. I like well when my servants labor for me with their own hands. Look at these sleeves which my silk-woman, Mrs. Montague, made for me and presented to me with great pride, I might tell you. See those exquisite buds and roses."

"Black on white again, Madam."

" Tis becoming, as you say, to some of us. Have you seen the smock Philip Sidney gave me this New Year?"

I took it out, as she bade me. It was of cambric worked with black silk and with it were a set of ruffs edged with gold and silver thread.

"Exquisite," I murmured.

"I have had some wonderful New Year's gifts," she said, "and I will show you my favorite of them all."

She was wearing it. It was a gold cross set with five flawless emeralds and beautiful pearls.

"That is superb, Madam."

She put her lips to it. "I admit to a special fondness for it. It was given to me by the one whose affection is more important to me than that of any other."

I nodded, knowing full well to whom she referred.

She smiled almost roguishly. "I fancy he is somewhat preoccupied at this time."

"You mean, Madam?"

"Robin ... Leicester."

"Oh, is that so?"

"He has pretensions. He has always fancied himself as royal, you know. He inherited his father's ambitions from him. Well, I would not have him otherwise. I like a man to have a good conceit of himself. You know well my fondness for him, Lettice."

"It has seemed clear, Madam."

"Well, can you understand it?"

The tawny eyes were alert. What was this leading to? Warnings flashed in my mind. Have a care. You are on very dangerous ground.

"The Earl of Leicester is a handsome man," I said, "and I know, as all do, that he and Your Majesty have been friends since your childhood."

"Yes, it seems to me sometimes that he has always been part of my life. If I had married he would have been the one I should have chosen. Once I offered him to the Queen of Scots, you know. She, poor fool, refused him. But does it not show how I have his welfare at heart? If he had gone to her a light would have gone out of my Court."

"Your Majesty has many bright beacons to make up for the loss."

She gave me a sharp nip suddenly. "Nothing could compensate me for Robin Dudley and you know it."

I bowed my head in silence.

"So I have his good at heart," she went on, "and I am going to help him to make a good marriage."

I felt she must be aware of the violent beating of my heart. To what was she leading? I knew her devious ways, when she would say one thing which was the complete opposite of what she meant. This was part of her greatness; it had made her the wily diplomat she was; it had kept her suitors at bay for years; it had kept England at peace. But what did she mean now?

"Well?" she said sharply. "Well?"

"Your Majesty is good to all your subjects and mindful of their welfare," I said perfunctorily.

" 'Tis true, and Robert always had a fancy for a royal bride. The Princess Cecilia has lost her husband, the Margrave of Baden, and Robert sees no reason—providing I approve—why he should not ask her hand in marriage."

"And what does Your Majesty say to this suggestion?" I heard myself say.

"I have told you that I want the best for my dear friend. I have said he may make his proposal with my approval. We must wish the pair of them happiness, I suppose."

"Yes, Madam," I said quietly.

I could scarcely wait to get away. It must be true. She would not have said it otherwise. But why was she telling me, and was there really a hint of malicious triumph in her voice or had I imagined it?

What had she heard? What did she know? Was this mere gossip or was it her way of telling me that Robert was not for me?

I was angry and fearful. I must see Robert without delay and demand an explanation. To my intense dismay I learned that he had left Court. He had gone to Buxton, on the advice of his doctors, to take the baths. I knew that whenever he was in a difficult situation he feigned illness. He had done this several times when he was in danger with the Queen. It always had the effect of softening her, for she could never bear to think of his being seriously ill. I felt angry. I was almost certain that his departure was due to the fact that he could not face me.

So it was true, then, that he was hoping to marry the Princess Cecilia!

I knew that she had visited England at one time. She was the sister of King Eric of Sweden, who had been one of Elizabeth's suitors; and there had been a rumor at the time that if Robert Dudley would persuade the Queen to take Eric, his reward would be the hand of Eric's sister, Cecilia. It could not have been much of a dilemma for Robert, who at that time had been certain that the Queen's husband would be himself and it was hardly likely that he would consider Cecilia fair exchange for his royal mistress. Elizabeth had prevaricated with Eric as with all her suitors and in due course Cecilia had married the Margrave of Baden. They had visited England together, a country Cecilia declared she yearned to see, but it was suspected that her motive in bringing her bridegroom to pay his respects to the Queen was in fact to urge her to take Eric for her husband.

She had arrived in winter, heavily pregnant. With her extraordinarily long fair hair, which she wore loose, she was so appealing that she won immediate popularity. Her son was christened in the Chapel Royal at Whitehall and the Queen herself stood as godmother.

Unfortunately the happy parents stayed too long and, being under the impression that they were guests of the country, ran up debts which they could not pay. This meant that the Margrave was forced to make an attempt to evade his creditors, was caught and put in jail. A very odd experience for visiting royalty and when the news of what had happened was brought to the Queen, she immediately paid his debts.

But they no longer had a happy impression of England, particularly as, when Cecilia was about to sail for her home, more creditors boarded the ship and took her belongings away with them. It was an unfortunate episode and the Margrave and his wife must have wished they had never set foot in England.

But now that the Margrave was dead and Cecilia a widow, Robert wished to marry her.

I asked myself again and again why I loved him. I kept going over the story of Amy Robsart. Uneasily I thought again and again of the death of Lord Sheffield and my own Walter, and I asked myself: Could this really be coincidence? And if not ... there was only one terrible conclusion to be drawn.

But my passion for Robert Dudley was not unlike the Queen's. Nothing that could be proved against him could alter it.

So now I was in a fury of impatience to see him. I was haunted by the fear that we should never marry, and that he was ready to throw me aside for a royal princess just as he had been ready to throw Douglass aside for me.

The Queen was in high good humor.

"Our gentleman is not acceptable, it seems," she told me. "Poor Robin and foolish Cecilia! I'd swear if she came here and he wooed her, she'd submit."

I was unable to stop myself: "Not all those who are wooed— even by Robert Dudley—submit."

She was not displeased.

" Tis true," she said. "But he is a man it is not easy to resist."

"I can believe it, Madam," I replied.

"Her brother, the King of Sweden, says he cannot believe she would wish to come to England after what happened on her last visit. So Robin is refused."

My relief was overwhelming. I felt as though I had been reborn. He would return now and I would hear from his own lips what had happened about the Swedish Princess.

Of course he had his answer.

"My God, Lettice, did you think I would marry anyone but you?"

"It would have been inconvenient for you if the Princess had said yes."

"Depend upon it I should have found a way out."

"It would not have been enough to go to Buxton to take the waters."

"Oh, Lettice, you know me well."

"Sometimes I fear too well, my lord."

"Oh come, come. The Queen decides I must offer Cecilia marriage. She does this kind of thing now and then to tease me, although both she and I know that nothing will come of it. What can I do but play along? Now, Lettice, you and I are going to marry. I am determined on that."

"I know the Princess has refused you but there are obstacles— the Queen and Douglass."

"Douglass is of no importance. She willingly became my mistress knowing full well that there would be no marrying. She has none but herself to blame."

"Herself and your devastating charms!"

"Am I to be taken to task for them?"

"For making promises that you have no intention of keeping you are."

"I assure you the position was always clear to Douglass."

"As you would doubtless say it was with me. But we have talked of marriage, my lord."

"Aye, and marriage there shall be ... and that before long."

"There is still the Queen."

"Ay yes, we must indeed take care where she is concerned."

"She might even decide to marry you herself to prevent my doing so."

"She will never marry. She has a fear of that state. Do you think I have known her all this time without realizing that. Have patience, Lettice. Believe in me. You and I shall marry, but we must go carefully. The Queen must not know of it until it is a fact and it must not be a fact until some little time has elapsed since your husband's death. We know our minds ... but we must be cautious."

Then he said we wasted time in talk, for we both knew each other's mind and needs; so we made love as I had begun to think only we could; and as usual I forgot my misgivings when I was with him.

Robert had acquired a house about six miles out of London and he had spent a great deal of time and money on enlarging it and making it splendid. It had been granted by Edward VI to Lord Rich, from whom Robert had bought it. It had a magnificent hall —fifty-three by forty-five—and a number of beautifully proportioned rooms. Robert had made it a fashion to lay handsome carpets on the floor and these were replacing the rushes in all his houses. The Queen was very interested and I went with the Court to Wanstead, where Robert put on one of his lavish entertainments.

We were able to meet now and then, but these meetings always must be conducted in the utmost secrecy and I was beginning to be irked by this. I could never be entirely sure of Robert and I believe this was one of the reasons why I was so infatuated with him. There was such an element of clanger in our relationship that it inevitably added to the excitement.

"This will be one of our favorite houses," he told me. "Kenilworth always will be first because it was there that we declared our love."

I retorted that the one in which we were married would be my favorite because it had taken us so long to reach that state.

He was constantly soothing me, placating me. He had quite a gift for it. Robert was a smooth-spoken person, which belied his ruthlessness and was in itself a little sinister. He was almost always courteous—except when he lost his temper—and this could be very deceptive.

It was while we were at Wanstead that I again heard rumors about Douglass Sheffield.

"She is very ill," one of the Queen's women whispered to me. "I have heard her hair is falling out and her nails breaking off. It is expected that she will not last long."

"What illness is this she is suffering from?" I asked.

My informant looked over my shoulder and, bringing her lips to my ear, whispered: "Poison."

"Nonsense!" I said sharply. "Who would want to remove Douglass Sheffield?"

"Someone who must get her out of the way."

"And who might that be?"

The woman shut her lips tightly and shrugged her shoulders.

"It is said that she has had a child by a very important man. It could be that he is the one who finds her an encumbrance."

"It could indeed be so if this talk be true," I answered casually.

I waited for news of Douglass Sheffield's death, but it did not come.

Sometime later I heard that she had gone to the country to recover.

So Douglass lived on.

It was the New Year, time for giving gifts to the Queen. She had been complaining about her hair, which was rarely dressed to her satisfaction, and I brought her two wigs for her to try—one black and one yellow, together with two ruffs trimmed with seed pearls.

She seized the wigs and, seated before the mirror, tried them on, demanding to know which suited her best; and as the Queen must look perfect on every occasion it was impossible to give her the truth.

I thought the black one made her look old, and as I knew it would displease her sooner or later and she would be reminded who gave it to her, I ventured: "Your Majesty's skin is so white and delicate that the black against it is too coarse."

"But does it not show the contrast?" she demanded.

"Yes, Madam, it does call attention to your flawless skin, but please may we try the golden one?"

She did and declared herself satisfied with it.

"But I shall try out the black," she told me.

Then she put on Robert's gift to her. It was a necklet of gold set with diamonds, opals and rubies.

"Is that not magnificent?" she demanded.

I said it was indeed.

She patted it tenderly. "He knows well my taste in jewels," she commented; and I thought how ironical it was to be called upon to applaud a lover's taste in the expensive gifts he gave to another woman.

She was perverse during the months which followed, and again the thought occurred to me that she knew something. I wondered whether she was remembering how Robert had persuaded her to send Walter back to Ireland and how he had died soon afterwards. She seemed watchful of me and kept me beside her.

I fancied Robert was aware of her attitude. He talked often to her of his swollen legs—he suffered from gout now—and hinted that his doctor was suggesting more visits to Buxton. I presumed he wanted to be ready for flight if the occasion should arise when it would be convenient for him to be out of the way.

She fussed about him and watched what he ate at table and told him with some asperity that he must eat and drink less.

"Look at me!" she cried. "I am neither too lean nor too fat. And why is this? Because I do not stuff myself like a pig, nor drink until I'm stupid in the head."

Sometimes she would snatch the food from his platter and declare that if he would not take better care of his health she would.

Robert did not know whether to be pleased or anxious, for there was that undoubted touch of asperity in her attitude towards him. Yet when he did go to Buxton she wanted to know how he fared and became melancholy and irritable with us all.

Robert was at Buxton when I accompanied the Queen on one of her summer journeys round the country and in due course we arrived at Wanstead, where Robert's servants greeted us with all the display their master would have wished.

"But it is not the same, Lettice," said the Queen. "What would Kenilworth have been without him?"

Sometimes it occurred to me that she was thinking she would marry him after all; but I supposed that, as she grew older, those emotions which she might have experienced when she was young were less insistent; and she grew more and more in love with her crown and the power it brought her. Yet when Robert was not with her there was always a change in her. Christopher Hatton, for all his good looks and dancing skill, could never be to her what Robert was. I was sure that she used Hatton to arouse Robert's jealousy, for she must have known that there were women in Robert's life since she had never given him the satisfaction a normal man needs and she was determined to show him that it was only her passionate devotion to the preservation of virginity which prevented her having as many lovers as he had.

When I realized increasingly how much Robert meant to her I grew very uneasy.

Robert had had a room at Wanstead made into what was called the Queen's Chamber. Throughout the house he indulged his love of extravagant splendor, but the chamber set aside for the Queen must naturally surpass all others. The bed was gilded and the walls covered with tinsel cloth so that it shimmered as the light caught it; and, knowing her addiction to cleanliness, he had had a hothouse installed so that she could take baths when she was there.

'Tis a fine place, Lettice," she said, "but it cannot fail to be dull lacking the presence of its master."

She sent word to him that she was at Wanstead and his reply delighted her. She read it to me.

"Poor Robin," she declared, "he is beside himself with frustration. He cannot bear to think of my being here and he not at hand to get his players to work for my pleasure and to get off his fireworks. I tell you this: The sight of him would mean more to me than all the plays and fireworks in my kingdom. He says that had he known I was going there, my Eyes would have left Buxton whatever the doctors said. And so he would."

She folded the letter and tucked it into her bosom.

I fervently wished she were less devoted to him. I knew that when—or perhaps if—we married, there would be dire trouble; and there was something else which made me uneasy. I believed I was pregnant. I was not sure whether this was good or not, for I saw in it a chance of bringing matters to a conclusion.

I would not have another miscarriage if I could help it. The last had depressed me considerably, for there was a side to my nature which surprised me. I did love my children, and they meant more to me than I would have believed possible; and when I thought of those I would have by Robert, I was very happy. But if we were to have a family, now was the time to begin.

The Queen's ministers had never ceased to urge her to marry, for there was constant anxiety as to the succession. They reckoned that if she would marry immediately there might still be time for her to give the country an heir. She was forty-five. Yes, it was late in life to begin childbearing, but her body was in good state. She had never abused it by overdrinking and overeating; she had taken regular exercise; she tired most of us out with her dancing; she rode and walked and was full of energy, both physical and mental. So they believed there might just be time.

This was a delicate matter for them to discuss with her, for she would become very angry if it were suggested she were no longer youthful; so there was a great deal of secret activity and the ladies of her intimate bedchamber were asked some searching questions.

The negotiations with France began. The Duc d'Anjou had become Henri III and his younger brother who, as the Duc d'Alencon, had once been the Queen's suitor, had taken the title of Duc d'Anjou from his brother, who now had the greater one of King of France. The Duc was still unmarried and no doubt his mother, Catherine de' Medici, felt that a share in the crown of England would be a great advantage to her son and to France.

When he had plied his suit previously, Elizabeth had been thirty-nine and he seventeen and the difference in their ages had not displeased her. Would it do so now that the Duc was more mature and—I had heard—debauched—and she perhaps felt the need for a little haste?

It always amazed me to see the excitement talk of marriage could arouse in her. It was an extraordinary side of her character that the fact that this little Frenchman, with the unsavory reputation and far from prepossessing appearance, who was considering marrying her—and she could have had many of the greatest princes in Europe or the most handsome man in England whom she loved—should have aroused such delight in her. She was as frivolous as a young girl, and indeed she acted like one. She became even more coquettish and demanded outrageous compliments about her appearance, talking of gowns and ruffs and ribbons as though they were matters of state. If one did not know her for the wily diplomat, the shrewd ruler, that she was, it would have seemed that the foolish creature was unworthy of her crown.

I had tried to understand her attitude. In my heart I knew she had no more intention of marrying Anjou than she had any other suitor. The only one she had ever seriously considered marrying was Robert Dudley. But she was fascinated by the subject of marriage; she may haveimagined herself united with a man—with Robert, I supposed—but it had to be a fantasy; she would never face the reality. Somewhere in the dark recesses of her mind was this bogey of marriage. Perhaps this was because her mother, demanding it, had paid for it with her life. I would never really understand. It was like a child who is terrified of the dark and yet asks for bloodcurdling stories about it and listens fascinated, begging for more.

I wanted to see Robert to tell him that I was with child, for I was certain of it. If he had really meant that we should marry, now was the time to prove it. I could not stay at Court when my pregnancy was obvious. The Queen had sharp eyes and I believed that recently she had watched me even more closely.

However the negotiations for the French marriage took her mind off those about her. Although those of us who knew her well were sure she had no intention of marrying the Duc, there was a growing feeling in the country about the proposed marriage, and those who did not have to be so careful of what they said were hinting that she should stop deceiving herself. There could be no issue and the marriage would mean putting power in the hands of the hated French.

But of course she could be unpredictable and none could be absolutely certain of what she would do; and there was an opinion that if she really had decided to marry at last, it would be better for the country and herself to take an Englishman and one of whom she was fond. Everyone knew who that was and that she had proved her true feelings for him over many years; and since he was the most powerful man in England already, if he were raised to be husband of the Queen, it could not be so very different.

Astley, one of the gentlemen of the bedchamber, even went so far as to remind her that Leicester was unmarried. It can be imagined what apprehension this caused me, but the Queen's reply delighted me. She was very angry and I knew it was because she thought that this courtship from which she intended to extract the maximum enjoyment was going to be snatched from her.

She shouted so that many of us heard, not only in the Presence Chamber but beyond: "Would it not be unlike myself and unmindful of my royal Majesty to prefer my servant, whom I myself have raised, before the greatest princes in Christendom."

What an insult to Robert! His pride would be deeply wounded. I wanted to be with him when he heard what the Queen had said, because it would show him that he had no hope of marrying her after all.

I sent word to him that I must see him as I had urgent news for him.

He came to Durham House and as the Queen was busy with the marriage negotiations he was freer than he usually was.

He embraced me with no lessening of his fervor and I said to him: "I am with your child, Robert, and something must be done about it."

He nodded, and I went on: "It will soon be obvious and then there will be difficulties. I have the Queen's permission to retire from the Court because I am concerned about the children. I also pleaded sickness. If we are ever going to be married, the time is now. The Queen won't have you. She has stated that clearly enough, and if she won't, then she can raise no objections to your marrying someone else."

"That's true," said Robert. "I will arrange it. Come to Kenilworth and the ceremony shall take place there. There will be no more delay."

He meant it this time. He was furious with the Queen for her excitement over the French suitor, and of course what she had said of him had been reported to him. He was not going to allow himself to be so humiliated before the whole Court and dance attendance on her while she archly prepared herself for her meeting with the Duc d'Anjou, who seemed likely to succeed where he had failed.

Fate was favoring me. This was my triumph. I had won. I knew her so well. She would not marry Anjou—she had no intention of doing so. She enjoyed pretending because it infuriated Robert and showed everyone how desperately he wanted to become her husband.

"It is the crown he wants, Cousin," I said to myself, and how I should have loved to say it to her!

How I should enjoy standing before her and telling her that I was the one he loved. "See," I would maliciously point out. "He has even risked your displeasure to marry me."

I made the journey to Kenilworth and there we went through a ceremony of marriage.

"As yet," said Robert, "we must preserve the utmost secrecy. I must choose the right moment to break it to the Queen."

I knew he was right about this so I agreed.

I was happy. I had achieved my purpose. I was the Countess of Leicester, Robert's wife.

Back at Durham House my father came to see me. He had always kept a sharp eye on us and I think I gave him more anxiety than any of my brothers and sisters, although when I had married Walter he had believed I had settled for a life of domesticity.

After Walter's death he had begun to visit me more frequently and I have no doubt that he had heard rumors about Walter's suspicious end.

Francis Knollys was a very good and pious man and I was proud that he was my father, but he had grown even more puritanical as the years passed. He watched over my children and was very concerned about their religious upbringing; as none of them was inclined to religion, they found this rather tiresome, and I had to admit that I agreed with them.

Now he called unexpectedly and it was impossible to hide my condition from him. He was alarmed and after embracing me he held me at arm's length and looked at me searchingly.

"Yes, Father," I said, "I am with child."

He stared at me in horror.

"But Walter ..."

"I was not in love with Walter, Father. We were separated so much. We had not a great many shared interests."

"That is no way for a wife to talk of her husband."

"I must be truthful to you, Father. Walter was a good husband, but he is dead and I am too young to remain a widow for the rest of my life. I have found a man whom I love dearly... ."

"And you are with child by him!"

"He is my husband and in due course our marriage will be taken out of secrecy."

"Secrecy! What is this? And you already with child!" He looked at me in horror. "I have heard a name mentioned with yours and this shocks me. The Earl of Leicester ..."

"He is my husband," I said.

"Oh God in heaven!" cried my father, and he was praying aloud, for he was not a man to use oaths. "Do not let this be true."

I said patiently: "It is true. Robert and I are married. What's wrong with that? You were glad enough to marry me to Walter Devereux. Robert Dudley is a far greater man than Walter could ever be."

"He is a far more ambitious man."

"What's wrong with ambition?"

"Stop wrangling," said my father sternly. "I want to know what this is all about."

"I am not a child, Father," I reminded him.

"You are my daughter. Let me know the worst."

"There is no worst. It is all the best of news. Robert and I love each other and because of this we are married and shall soon have a child."

"Yet you must hide yourself, hide your marriage. Lettice, have you no wisdom! His first wife died mysteriously. He has always hoped to marry the Queen. I have heard disturbing stories about Lady Sheffield."

"They are untrue."

"She was first his mistress and then his wife, some say."

"She was never his wife. That is a story circulated because she had a child by him."

"And you find this acceptable?"

"I would accept a great deal if Robert went with it."

"And now you have put yourself in a similar position to that of Lady Sheffield."

"Indeed I have not. I am married to Robert."

"So she thought. My child—for so you seem since you can be so easily deluded—it is clear that he went through a form of marriage with Lady Sheffield—a mock ceremony. Then when he wanted to, he could discard her. Don't you see he has put you in a similar position?"

"That's untrue!" I cried, but it was hard to prevent my voice trembling. It had been a secret ceremony, and Douglass Sheffield must have been deceived because she was clearly a woman who could not easily lie.

"I am going to see Leicester," said my father firmly. "I am going to find out exactly what this is all about, and I am going to see the ceremony performed before my eyes, and with witnesses. If you are to be Robert Dudley's wife, you must be so surely so that he cannot discard you when he wishes to turn his attention to someone else."

My father left me then and I wondered what the outcome would be.

I was soon to discover.

My father came to Durham House and with him were Robert's brother, the Earl of Warwick, and a close friend, the Earl of Pembroke.

"Prepare yourself to leave at once," said my father. "We are going to Wanstead. There you are to be married to the Earl of Leicester."

"Has Robert agreed to this second ceremony?" I asked.

"He is eager for it. He has convinced me that he is devoted to you and has no wish but that your union shall be legal."

By this time I was heavily pregnant but delighted to make the journey.

When we reached Wanstead, Robert was waiting there with Lord North, who had always been one of his greatest friends.

He embraced me and told me that my father was determined on this ceremony and he himself was nothing loath. He would not have any doubt his great desire to marry me and live with me as my husband.

The next morning we were joined by my brother, Richard, and one of Robert's chaplains, a Mr. Tindall, who was to perform the ceremony; and there in the gallery at Wanstead, my father gave me away to the Earl of Leicester, and the ceremony was conducted in such a manner and with such witnesses that it could never be denied that it had taken place.

My father said: "My daughter will soon give birth to your child. Then there will have to be an acknowledgment of the marriage in order to preserve her good name."

"You may safely leave that to me," Robert assured him, but my father was not so easily set aside.

"It must be known that she is truly married and the Countess of Leicester."

"My dear Sir Francis," replied my husband, "can you imagine what the Queen's wrath will be like when she knows I have married without her consent?"

"Then why did you not ask her consent?"

"Because it would never have been given. I must have time to break it to her ... to choose my moment. If she were to announce her betrothal to the French Prince, then I should be justified in telling her I have a wife."

"Oh, Father," I said impatiently, "you must see the point of all this. Do you want us to be thrown into the Tower. As for you, what would your position be when it was known that you had ac­tually attended the ceremony. You know full well her temper."

"I know it full well, as you say," replied my father, and Warwick joined with his brother and said that of course they must be discreet and leave it to Robert to make the decision because of his intimate knowledge of the Queen's moods.

So it was agreed and, that night, Robert and I were together in the Queen's chamber and I could not stop thinking of Elizabeth sleeping there, believing that the chamber was kept solely in readiness for her visits; and there was I, in this superb bed with my husband with whom I was madly in love and he with me, and I pictured what her fury would be like if she could see us now.

This was indeed the supreme victory.

I think Robert derived a great deal of satisfaction from it too, for, in spite of his pleasure in me, he must have been smarting from those insulting words of hers. He could not have had a greater revenge.

How deeply involved we three were together. Even on our wedding night, it seemed that she was there with us.

But whatever the outcome, the fact remained that, without doubt, I was Robert's wife.

The next day there was disconcerting news. A messenger arrived from the Queen. She had heard that the Earl of Leicester was at his estate of Wanstead and she had decided that she would stay there for two nights on the last stages of her journey to Greenwich. As her Eyes had been so sad because last time she had visited Wanstead he had been at Buxton taking the baths, she was shortening her journey that she might spend two days in his company.

It was almost as though she knew. The thought occurred to us both that she did and that she had arranged this because of it. Robert was greatly disturbed, for, as he had pointed out to me, when the explanation came he must be the one to give it and he must choose the moment. It would never do for her to discover through someone else. It was most disconcerting that this should come on the day after our wedding, but at least there was a warning; and on consideration it seemed to us that if she had in fact known what had happened, she would never have given us the warning which enabled us to have time to cover up.

"We must act quickly," said Robert, and the others agreed with him. I should leave immediately and go back with my father to Durham House. Robert, with Warwick and North, should stay at Wanstead and prepare for the coming of the Queen.

I had to agree. My triumph in the Queen's bed was over.

Reluctantly and somewhat deflated I left Wanstead and went back to wait as patiently as I could for Robert to come to me.

I suppose the journeys to and fro and all the excitement proved too much for me in my condition; and perhaps because I had brought about the loss of a child before, life was punishing me. In any case I gave birth to a stillborn child and in as much secrecy as we could manage.

It was some little time before Robert could come to me, for the Queen was so pleased with his company at Wanstead that she insisted on his returning to Greenwich with her. When he came I had recovered from the worst of my misadventure and he comforted me by saying we would have a son before long. The Queen had shown no suspicion, so we had been unduly alarmed.

He was confident that when the time came he would be able to break the news to her gently and with the least disaster to ourselves. For the time being I could plead illness; and the fact that she was chattering continually about the proposed French marriage would make it all so much easier.

We were together for a while at Durham House, but I did wish that we could declare our marriage openly.

"All in due course," soothed Robert. He was so ebullient. After all, he had come through a great number of upsets with the Queen and survived. I was not so sure of myself. I remembered that I had once before been exiled from the Court for a very long time.

Still, life was exciting. I was Robert's wife—firmly married to him in a ceremony witnessed by my father; and my nature did revel in playing this dangerous game with the Queen.