When this was reported to her, Elizabeth summoned him. She would show him a thing or two about the lightness of women. She smiled sweetly. ‘If it pleases you to depart for the Netherlands, Monsieur, I will give you a loan of sixty thousand pounds to use against the Spaniards.’
‘Divine Goddess,’ he said, bending and kissing her hands, ‘I cannot sufficiently express my gratitude. I accept your kind offer, of course, and will arrange to depart by Christmas.’
When he had gone Elizabeth danced for joy around her chamber. Sussex, bowing his way in, gaped.
‘My lord,’ she trilled, ‘do you know something? I hate the idea of marriage more every day!’
Christmas came and went and Anjou was still at court.
‘Do you not want to go to the Netherlands, my Frog?’ Elizabeth demanded to know.
‘Alas, I have found that I cannot face being apart from you,’ he declared. ‘I would rather die than leave England without marrying you.’
Elizabeth’s mood abruptly changed. She knew what he was about! ‘Do you mean to threaten a poor old woman in her own country?’ she said sharply. ‘I see I have been at fault, encouraging you in your courtship. Until matters are decided, you must try to think of me as a sister.’
At that, to her consternation, Anjou burst noisily into tears, a seemingly endless flood. God, he looked disgusting, with the snot running out of his nose. Exasperated, she handed him her lace handkerchief and walked off. She was desperate to be free of him.
‘I never had any intention of marrying him,’ she told her Council, ‘but he insists on carrying on this courtship, and it is wearing me down.’
‘Might I suggest offering him, as a bribe, an advance of twenty thousand pounds, on condition that he leaves England?’ Robert ventured. ‘It would be worth it to get rid of him at last.’ There was a certain vehemence in his tone, Elizabeth noted, but mercifully he had stopped short of reminding her that he had been right about Anjou all along.
‘The thought of wasting so much money on that little man appals me,’ she said. ‘Good Spirit, pray advise him to leave before the new year comes in. Say he will avoid the expense of buying me a gift.’
Back came Burghley. ‘He has already got a gift for your Majesty.’
‘Damn him!’ Elizabeth swore. Was Anjou to confound her at every turn?
She was not pleased when he confronted her on New Year’s Eve.
‘You pledged yourself to me!’ he reminded her, his tone plaintive, his face choleric.
‘I have not forgotten,’ she told him, ‘and in token of that I will pay you ten thousand pounds of the money I promised to lend you.’
It was not enough, she could see by his expression. He knew very well that, if he left England, he would never see the rest of the loan. And she knew that, if he went now, the money would never be repaid.
1582
Elizabeth’s mind was gratefully diverted from the problem of Anjou by the arrival of a new gentleman at court. Walter Raleigh was a Devon man, and great-nephew to her beloved Kat Astley. He was courageous and dashing (he had fought with the Huguenots against the French), brilliant, versatile and dauntless, a poet and a man of many parts. He exuded virility, being tall and dark with penetrating eyes – the very mirror of all that Elizabeth considered attractive in men. She liked his forthright manner, his eloquent speech and his candid opinions. He had rather showily gained her attention when he had spread his cloak over a puddle into which she was about to step, but she had admired him for the panache with which he had done it. Rumour at court had it that he had even taken a diamond and scratched a message on a window in her gallery – Fain would I climb yet fear I to fall. And Elizabeth was said to have scored below it: If thy heart fails thee, climb not at all. It was typical of her, and all too believable, but no one could say exactly where the window was.
Raleigh’s heart had not failed him. It seemed that he gained the Queen’s ear in a trice, and within weeks he had risen to become one of her favourites. The turning point was when, one dark February afternoon he got a smut on his face from a brazier, and she offered to wipe it with her own handkerchief. The courtiers looked on in amazement. Elizabeth was captivated by him. The man could do no wrong.
These days it was Walter this and Walter that – or rather Warter this and Warter that, as she nicknamed him, mimicking his broad Devon accent. To him she was Cynthia, goddess of the moon and virgin huntress, and he fancied himself as Orion, the only man who had won Cynthia’s heart.
Robert could not stand Warter, and he was not the only one. For Raleigh soon grew insufferably arrogant. He was a liar and a lecher. Robert seethed to see him installed in Durham House on London’s Strand, and appearing at court in dazzling outfits each day, ridiculous plumage in his hat and gem-encrusted shoes on his feet. He could not bear to think that Elizabeth was showing favour to this adventurer, this wastrel, this … Words failed him. He was aware that he was jealous. He was fifty now, and feared, naturally enough, that his star might be eclipsed by this thirty-year-old upstart.
Hatton was jealous too. He sent Elizabeth a miniature gold bucket containing a letter complaining that ‘Warter’ was ousting him from his Queen’s affections. She laughed when she read it, getting the pun, and hastened to reassure her Mutton.
‘If princes were like gods, as they should be,’ she told him, ‘they would suffer no element to breed confusion. The beasts of the field are so dear to me that I have bounded my banks so sure as no water could ever be able to overthrow them. I am my Mutton’s shepherd, and you should remember how dear my sheep is to me!’
She was not blind to Raleigh’s faults. She made him captain of her personal guard, the Gentlemen Pensioners, but she told Robert, to mollify him, that she had resolved never to appoint Warter to high office, for he was too unstable, quarrelsome and unpopular.
She was aware that she had treated Robert badly. When she looked at him afresh after one of his absences from court, she was saddened to see a man who had grown old in her service. His long beard was quite white now, his head bald under the brave bonnet. He had put on more weight, his paunch straining his doublet. There was little left of the young and virile gallant who had captured her heart in the heady days after her accession. Yet the inner man remained, the one she would always love – her dearest Eyes, who was closer to her than any other.
He had given her good counsel on countless occasions, and he had been right in suggesting that twenty thousand pounds would be sufficient to make Anjou leave England. When the little Frenchman had presented her with a New Year gift of a brooch in the form of an anchor, symbolising hope and fidelity, she very speedily offered him another ten thousand, which he accepted with alacrity. It was worth every penny, for she had been having sleepless, feverish nights worrying about how to rid herself of her importunate suitor.
She was so relieved when Monsieur informed her that he was leaving early in February that she insisted on accompanying him as far as Canterbury, where they said their farewells in private in a house in the high street, commandeered for the purpose. She also gladly provided an escort of three English warships, and made Leicester and other lords go with the Duke all the way to the Netherlands, just to make sure that he did actually leave the realm.
‘I would rather not go,’ Robert had told her. ‘I am suffering my old stomach pains.’
‘Go you must,’ she insisted, ‘and you will suffer more if you do not treat respectfully the man I love most in the world!’ Her lips twitched as she said it, and Robert had to smile. In a low voice, Elizabeth added, ‘And I have a message for you to convey secretly to the Dutch. Ask them to ensure that the Duke never returns to England. And, Robin – come back to me safely!’ She wrung his hands as she said this. He was surprised, and gratified to hear her using her old pet name for him after so long. At least some good had come out of the Anjou débâcle.
In public, and especially when the French ambassador was nearby, Elizabeth showed herself grief-stricken at Anjou’s departure.
‘I cannot go back to Whitehall,’ she cried, ‘because the place is full of memories of him with whom I have unwillingly parted.’ She dabbed touchingly at her eyes. ‘I do declare that I cannot live another hour were it not for the hope of seeing Monsieur again. Thank God he will be back in six weeks.’ It was a lie, but no one was to know that. And six years would not be too soon.
She wore at her girdle a tiny prayer book set with miniatures of herself and the Duke, and told the astonished Spanish ambassador that she would give a million pounds to have her Frog swimming in the Thames once more (whereupon he immediately informed his master that he had heard it from the Queen’s own lips that she was keen for the French marriage to go ahead). She wrote loving letters to her absent suitor, who in turn kept up the pretence that they were soon to be wed. He even pressed her to name the day. Elizabeth was determined to maintain this fictional courtship for as long as possible; her aim, as before, was to keep the French friendly and King Philip at bay.
Robert was soon back at court, looking pleased with himself for having, literally, seen off his rival for the Queen’s affections. In full hearing of her courtiers, he could not resist taking a prod at Anjou. ‘Some conqueror he looked like when we docked at Flushing! He resembled nothing so much as an old husk, run ashore, high and dry.’
Elizabeth screamed at him, for she feared he had ruined everything. ‘Don’t you dare be so insolent as to mock your future king, my lord! You are a traitor, like all your horrible family!’
Robert recoiled at her unexpected tirade. But Elizabeth’s anger cooled as quickly as it had flared. Robert was right: Anjou was a husk of a man. Her spies informed her that he preferred to play tennis while the Spanish Duke of Parma took city after city. What was he thinking of?
Monsieur, are you quite mad? she thundered, her quill flying across the page. You seem to believe that the means of keeping our friends is to weaken them! After that, of course, there was no hope that Anjou would ever again contemplate coming back to England to claim her.
1583
Anjou was back in France. He had been spectacularly repelled after foolishly turning on the Dutch rebels who had failed to support him, and had scuttled off home, his great ambitions in shreds.
‘France never received so great a disgrace,’ Walsingham pronounced.
Elizabeth said nothing. She sat brooding in her great chair. She felt no sense of triumph, only an intense sadness. All pretence that she would marry Anjou had been abandoned. She would not waste herself on a prince covered with ignominy. It did not trouble her. But she was now nearly fifty, and knew that her courting days were over.
‘I am an old woman,’ she said suddenly, ‘and paternosters must suffice in place of nuptials.’
‘Not so, Madam,’ Burghley protested gallantly. ‘You are our Hebe, the goddess of youth, eternally beautiful and raised above ordinary mortals.’
‘My Lord Treasurer speaks truth,’ Robert chimed in, his eyes warm and tender, and the other councillors chorused in assent.
Elizabeth smiled wanly, grateful to them for their courtesy and compliments. But face it she must: the Tudor dynasty would end with her, an ageing, barren woman, and instead of raising her own heirs, she would now have to grapple with the problem of the succession. Worse than that, she had lost her chief bargaining counter, which she had played to advantage – and at no small price to herself – for a quarter of a century: her hand in marriage. No longer was she the best match in her parish, as Walsingham had once called her. Youth had fled, and she was now probably past the age for bearing children. God grant at least that she outlived the Queen of Scots!
Marriage was no longer an option, but love and fidelity were just as important. She had persuaded herself that Robert’s chief loyalty was still to her, and had resolutely ignored the likelihood that he had a prior loyalty to another, so she was furious when, that summer, he mentioned that woman – and as ‘my lady wife’, if you please – in her presence. In fact she was so incensed that she sent him from the court in disgrace, then went about telling everyone that Lettice – that she-wolf – had made him a cuckold.
‘I will expose her in all the courts of Christendom for the bad woman she is,’ she growled. But her inner voice of wisdom told her that she should not dare to provoke Robert that far, and by the end of August all was forgiven – at least on her part, for Robert was finding it hard to forgive Elizabeth for the unfounded calumny she had spread about Lettice – and he was back at court, in greater favour than he’d enjoyed for a long time. His place at the Queen’s side was to remain unchallenged, because soon afterwards his old adversary Sussex died, and with him gone, Leicester’s opponents lost their mouthpiece.
Robert was in favour, yes, but his power, like his health, was waning. He wanted – as he had wanted for so long – to lead an army into the Netherlands and drive out the Spaniards, while he still could, but Elizabeth would not hear of it. He was not well, she reminded him. She did not like the high, ruddy colour of his cheeks, and she worried a lot about the stomach pains he now suffered increasingly. She nagged him more than ever to eat a careful diet and made him visit Buxton once more to take the waters. Nothing seemed to help. Pain, and anxiety about his condition, made Robert short-tempered and intolerant of criticism; to hear him these days, you would think that every man was his enemy.
‘What ails you, Robin?’ Elizabeth asked, unable to conceal her fear. ‘You always had a mild, amiable nature. I appeal from this lord of Leicester to my old lord of Leicester, who won the praise of so many. I want him back!’
He forced a smile. ‘I am sorry I have been like an old bear, Bess. I’ll be better in a few days. Just let me get back in the saddle and give the Spaniards a trouncing, and I will be a new man.’
‘No!’ she said, more vehemently than she intended. ‘England cannot muster an army strong enough to overcome Parma’s forces.’
‘Tactics, Bess, tactics! What of Crécy and Agincourt? We were heavily outnumbered in both battles, but we won great victories.’
‘I will not take the chance, and I will not risk your safety. You occupy a special place in my heart, Robin.’
‘I know that, Bess.’ He wished he could compete with her younger favourites, Raleigh and now young Charles Blount, newly come to court. Really, it was ridiculous to see a twenty-year-old boy fawning over a woman of fifty – and Charles was not the only one. All the youth of England seemed to be clamouring to be part of the charmed elite that clustered around the Queen. Already she was a legend, and her popularity had never been greater, especially in the wake of a horrifying plot to shoot her and put her head on a pole over London Bridge. The perpetrator had been a mad Catholic lad acting alone but inspired by Jesuit propaganda, and he had hanged himself in his cell at Newgate before they could put his head where he had meant to put his Queen’s.
In the wake of this lucky escape, there was an upsurge of love and loyalty for Elizabeth. Wherever she went, crowds would gather, and people knelt by the wayside wishing her a thousand blessings, calling down curses on those evil persons who meant harm to her.
‘I see clearly that I am not disliked by all,’ she observed. She would have no children of her own, yet it was heartening to know that she was widely seen as a careful mother to her people, the small as well as the great, whom she had kept in safety and quietness these twenty-five years.
1585
The court was at Nonsuch Palace in Surrey, enjoying the brilliant July weather and the hunting to be had nearby, when a messenger arrived from Wanstead with the news that Robert’s little son was dead of a fever. In an agony of grief, he saddled his horse and galloped homewards to console Lettice, not even pausing to ask Elizabeth’s permission to depart. But she understood, and forgave him for it. She sent after him a courtier, Sir Henry Killigrew, with a heartfelt message of sympathy. Burghley, in turn, placed his house, Theobalds, at the disposal of the bereaved parents, so that they could mourn in private in a place where there were no reminders of their precious boy.<
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When Robert returned to court, having laid his only heir to rest in St Mary’s Church at Warwick, he was a grievously changed and desolate man. He had aged ten years in as many weeks, and the pains in his stomach had intensified. Elizabeth did her best to console him, as did his colleagues on the Council, but all he could think of was the loss of his boy.
‘My noble imp was just five years old,’ he wept. ‘He was too good for this world. Now all my wealth will go to my brother Warwick.’ It was heart-rendingly clear that Robert would father no more children. Aged beyond his years at fifty-three, he plainly had not the vigour for it.
‘I want to retire from public life,’ he said abruptly.
‘No, my Eyes,’ said Elizabeth. ‘I will not hear of it.’
‘You are needed here, my lord,’ Hatton told him. ‘You cannot abandon us now.’ He spoke truth, because the Queen of Scots had been found to have been actively plotting against Elizabeth, and it was evident that she was determined to overthrow her and seize her throne; William of Orange, the brave leader of the Dutch Protestants, had been murdered on King Philip’s orders; and Elizabeth’s subjects were in terror lest she be next on Spain’s list. With William gone – and Anjou dead this past year of malaria contracted in the Netherlands – nothing now stood between England and that great Spanish army in the Netherlands, and Parma was advancing relentlessly …
What would happen when there were no more cities left to take?