“Will you receive Moray?” Robert asked.
“I will—but it will not be the kind of reception he is hoping for!” Elizabeth said grimly.
She was dressed dramatically from head to toe in black when Moray was announced, and she kept him on his knees for a long time, before the whole court.
“My lord, you have rebelled against your lawful sovereign,” she reproved him. “You look to us for aid, that I know. But we will not maintain any subject in such disobedience against his prince, for we know that Almighty God would recompense us with the like in our own realm.”
“Madam, we serve a common cause, that of the true religion,” Moray protested, his face dark with fury, his knees beginning to ache.
“We are aware of that,” Elizabeth told him, “and for that reason we will permit you to remain in England. But as we love peace, we will not engage in a war with Scotland.”
Moray muttered his thanks and staggered to his feet as elegantly as he could. Soon he had cause to perceive the wisdom behind Elizabeth’s refusal to become involved. Mary, it was clear, was digging her own grave.
“She might have won the battle, but she will not win the war,” Elizabeth told her councillors. “Without Moray, she cannot control her lords; they are an unruly, quarreling bunch, by all accounts. Darnley, I am credibly informed, spends half his life drunk, and the rest of it conducting himself willfully, haughtily, and viciously. He complains already that he is never sufficiently honored. The Queen is no longer infatuated with him, and there are constant jars between them.” She smiled in satisfaction. “What did I predict, gentlemen, when Darnley took it upon himself to propose to Mary?”
They all knew, of course, who had maneuvered him into that position.
“There is worse, madam,” Cecil said, producing a letter. “I had this today, from Thomas Randolph. It seems that Darnley has cause for jealousy. Queen Mary is turning increasingly for advice”—he smiled as he stressed the word—“to her secretary, one David Rizzio, an Italian. Apparently it is he who determines all at her court, much to Darnley’s chagrin.”
“All?” Elizabeth inquired, her eyebrows raised.
“All and more, or so it is rumored,” Cecil said, scanning the letter. “This Rizzio has a fine singing voice, which seems to be his prime qualification for controlling access to the Queen and ruling all. Darnley, Randolph writes, is spitting fire!”
“And Mary thought herself too good for my lord of Leicester here!” Elizabeth observed. “See to what depths she now descends. Her name will become a byword for scandal if she persists in her folly, and it will redound on others too. People will say that women are unfit to rule!” Her eyes flashed.
“No one could possibly say that of Your Majesty,” Cecil responded, as he knew he was expected to do.
“Aye,” chorused the others, just as dutifully, and happily, in most cases, heartily. Robert’s eyes were warm. Elizabeth looked at them all with affection. She was blessed in her lords—unlike Mary.
“I wonder what Moray and his fellows will do,” she mused.
The word was that Moray was preparing to go back to Scotland.
“Where he will raise an army against his queen!” Robert said. He would dearly have loved to fight for the Protestant cause, but did not dare suggest it. He could guess what Elizabeth’s answer would be.
“We shall see,” Cecil said. “So much is speculation. But I doubt that his return will portend well for Rizzio—or Darnley. By the way, my lord, the Queen is not pleased to hear complaints that your followers have been picking fights and brawling with Norfolk’s.”
“I know. She told me herself.” Robert frowned. “I explained that Norfolk is jealous; he puts them up to it. He will do anything to discredit me. But I ignore him; I depend only on Her Majesty.”
“That, my lord, is the problem,” Cecil said drily, “and Her Majesty must deal with it.”
Elizabeth did, but not in the way Robert had hoped. Before all the court, in the guise of making a joke, she tapped him with her fan and said, “You have been provoking jealousy, my lord! You must not display too much familiarity toward me. And you, my lord of Norfolk,”—another tap with the fan—“have been immoderate in your conduct. You must set all quarrels aside, both of you!” Reluctantly the two men shook hands, unsmiling, Robert smarting at the reprimand.
The courtiers were still laying bets that the Queen would marry him. The French ambassador, no less, had expressed the belief that Robert remained the chief contender for her hand. Even his enemies—Norfolk excepted, obviously—clearly felt it expedient to be pleasant to him and seek his favor. He and Elizabeth were as friendly as two turtle doves these days, but she would not permit him her chamber, and they were lovers no more.
He found himself looking back on the days of their passion as a golden time, but he realized, with profound sadness, that it was now in the past. Unsatisfied, desire had raged—and then, inexplicably, dwindled. A fire needed feeding, or it would burn out, and there had been precious little to fan the flames in recent months. There had been a time, not so long ago, when the very touch of Elizabeth’s hand left him craving more. He could not recapture that feeling, try as he might, and feared that she felt the same. If so, she had even less cause to marry him. Yet they remained close, and—when they were not fighting—she still treated him with the special favor she had always shown him. If, by a miracle, she decided that he was the husband for her, he would not hesitate. And he knew it was not just the lure of a crown that would beckon him; what they had between them was more solid than many marriages. Maybe, if she summoned the courage to give herself to him, their passion could be rekindled. He devoutly hoped so.
On Christmas Eve, Elizabeth was standing with her ladies in the great hall, watching the men bringing in the Yule log, which would burn on the hearth throughout the twelve days of celebrations. Around her, servants were merrily decking the hall with holly, ivy, and bay, and setting the tables for tomorrow’s feast. She loved this season, and was enjoying herself hugely, so she was not pleased to see Norfolk bearing down on her.
“Yes, my lord?” Her voice rang out sharply. Her ladies scuttled away to a safe distance. She was wont to slap them when others aroused her ire.
“Your Majesty, as your premier peer, I feel it my duty to raise a delicate matter with you,” the duke began, bravely venturing where few had gone before.
“Indeed!” she retorted. “Then let us go where we will not be overheard. Come walk with me in the gallery.” She led him out of the hall and along to a window embrasure overlooking the river.
“Speak, my lord,” she commanded.
Norfolk plunged in fearlessly. “It is the matter of your marriage. As a maiden queen, you have never experienced the joys of matrimony, and I feel it incumbent upon me—for the sake of the kingdom, you understand—to reassure you that it is a most pleasant and fulfilling state—”
“My lord of Norfolk!” Elizabeth roared. “Only last year your poor wife died in childbed, and she only twenty-four. And I recall that your first wife suffered the same fate when she was just sixteen! I’m sure that matrimony was a pleasant and fulfilling state for both of them!”
“I but meant, madam, that, so the couple be spared to each other, they may find great happiness together. Indeed, I am not daunted by my sad losses, but am about to make a third marriage, so highly do I value the institution.”
“And which lamb is it you are leading to the slaughter this time?”
“Elizabeth Dacre, you recall, madam. You did give your permission.” He looked at her nervously.
“Fool that I was!” Elizabeth retorted. “But think, my lord: what would have happened to England had I taken your advice and wed, and then suffered the same fate as your poor wives?”
“Many women bear healthy children and live to rear them,” Norfolk countered, feeling nevertheless as if he was sinking into a mire.
“And some do not! There are no guarantees!”
“We can all of us sa
y that, madam. Life itself is uncertain. We can each of us be cut down without warning.”
“Did you come to cheer me up this Christmas tide?” Elizabeth snarled. But Norfolk was on a one-man mission, and did not heed the warning note in her voice.
“Think of the succession, madam! The matter must be settled soon. Most of your subjects want you to marry the Archduke Charles. If some have appeared to endorse a marriage with my lord of Leicester, it is because they believe that is where your heart lies, not because they think the match would be beneficial to the realm or good for your own dignity.”
Elizabeth stood there seething. “I have long been aware of your hatred for the Earl of Leicester,” she said. “You must not let it color your judgment. I, and I alone, will decide who, and when, I marry. And believe me, my lord, I have the succession ever in my thoughts! Now go. I have let you off lightly because of the season!”
Norfolk departed in high dudgeon, and sought out Leicester.
“You, my lord, should remember that you agreed to abandon your suit to the Queen!” he growled.
Robert regarded him evenly. “Did I?” he said. “I’m sure that your lordship is correct.” And he gave Norfolk a tight smile and went on his way. Later that day, as Norfolk rode home to his estates to celebrate Yuletide, he congratulated himself on having done his queen and his country a great service.
Elizabeth stood in her privy chamber, shaking. Not on account of that prattling fool, Norfolk—although God knew she had wanted to box his ears, and perhaps even send him for a salutary spell in the Tower—but because of the letter she held in her hand: the letter that had just arrived from Scotland.
Mary was with child. Pretty, brainless, imprudent Mary had achieved—despite her marriage having fallen to ruin—the one important thing that Elizabeth had not. The knowledge was like bitter gall in her mouth.
“Leave me!” she commanded her women. As soon as she was alone, she gave way to tears, hot, jealous tears—and that was how Robert found her. He had heard the news and realized how deeply it would upset her.
“Sweet Bess,” he gentled her, gathering her in his arms. “You are in a far happier condition than the Queen of Scots. Your subjects love you; your lords are loyal; I love you. Think how Mary’s lot pales beside yours. Her lords, for the most part, are in rebellion against her. Who knows what they will do? Her husband is estranged from her; they avoid each other’s company as much as possible, by all reports. She spends her days in the company of the upstart, Rizzio, and pays no heed to those who warn her of the scandal she is causing. There is even gossip that the child is not Darnley’s. You would not want to change places with her.”
“True,” Elizabeth sniffed. “But she has done something I cannot do!”
“Why can you not do it? Ask yourself. The past is behind you.”
“Ah, Robin,” Elizabeth said sadly, “it is not just the past that deters me. Were I to have a son, there would be those who would clamor for me to stand aside so that a man could rule. I know the temper of my lords.”
“Not so, Bess!” Robert protested. “It may have been so at first, but you have proved your mettle now, and they love and respect you for yourself. And with a husband standing firmly beside you, supporting you, no one would dare try to take from you the crown that is rightfully yours.”
“Ah, Robin, you make it seem so simple!” Elizabeth cried, breaking free. “And no doubt the husband you speak of would be yourself.”
“It is simple, Bess!” He went down on one knee and seized her hand. “I pray you, marry me! I would be your strength and support; I would honor you and respect your position.”
Elizabeth looked down at him. Her tears had dried and she was smiling. “I will consider it,” she agreed. “It is Christmas now. I will give you an answer by Candlemas!”
“But that is weeks away!” he cried.
“Then you must wait!” she told him. “It is not so very long, and you can be sure that I will weigh very seriously what you have asked me.”
He was more confident of success this time, even though he’d lost count of the other times he had been hopeful. He felt that he had presented Elizabeth with the most acceptable solution to her concerns. It would be enough for him to be her husband and wear the crown matrimonial; he would not pursue sovereign power. Instead he was resolved to use his influence much as he did now. But over the Christmas festivities he could not resist dropping hints about the imminent change in his prospects, and bearing himself like the king he hoped soon to be, while Elizabeth let him do it, and kept him constantly at her side.
The court buzzed with speculation. Robert’s enemies girded their loins for protest. The French ambassador spread it around—without any truth—that the Queen and her lover had slept together on New Year’s night. Silva angrily denied it, fearing that if this got back to the Emperor—and the diplomatic grapevine was alive with gossip—it would scupper the match with the Archduke.
An ugly incident at the Twelfth Night feast did not help matters. To Robert’s fury, Thomas Heneage drew the sought-after bean hidden in the traditional cake, and was chosen as King of the Bean for the evening, his ancient office being to preside over the revelry.
“We must do everything he commands!” Elizabeth cried, laughing at the prospect. Who knew what undignified and hilarious challenges, dares, forfeits, or orders the King of the Bean would issue? No one had forgotten the Christmas that witnessed the stately Cecil crawling about on his knees under the high table looking for the Queen’s slipper (which had, helpfully, been hidden beneath her skirts), or Elizabeth herself planting a kiss on the lips of her highly embarrassed Archbishop of Canterbury. Robert himself had been King of the Bean then.
Heneage was suddenly at Robert’s ear. “Ask Her Majesty which is the more difficult to erase from the mind—jealousy, or an evil opinion implanted by a wicked tale-teller,” he ordered.
“What the hell are you implying?” Robert asked angrily. “People will think that I have been unfaithful to the Queen.”
“Do it!” Heneage snarled. “Or I will tell the company that you have refused to obey me.” People were already staring curiously at them.
Robert rose unwillingly to his feet. He posed the question to Elizabeth.
“Both are difficult to get rid of,” she answered, “but in my opinion it is much harder to remove jealousy.” She gave him a strange look.
“I will castigate you with a stick!” he muttered to Heneage.
“That is not a punishment for an equal,” Heneage retorted, “and if you come to insult me thus, you will discover whether my sword can cut and thrust.”
Others were avidly taking in every word of this heated exchange.
“This gentleman is not my equal,” Robert said stiffly, “and I will postpone chastizing him until an appropriate time.”
Soon afterward he watched as Heneage approached the Queen and whispered in her ear. She frowned and summoned Robert to her side. “If, by my favor, you have become insolent, my lord, you should soon reform,” she reproved him. “Remember, I could debase you just as I have raised you.” Heneage stood by, grinning smugly.
Robert was extremely hurt. The episode had depressed him, and he stayed in his lodgings for the next four days, not venturing to sally forth into a court that would be either hostile or laughing at him. He felt deeply humiliated, and wondered why Elizabeth had turned on him so unfairly.
Elizabeth too was upset. Heneage’s insinuation that Robert had betrayed her struck at her heart and she lashed out accordingly. But on reflection—which did take several days—she concluded that the slur had been born of sheer malice and envy. No wonder Robin was hurt.
She summoned him, and there was yet another tearful reunion. Robert thought it augured well for the future. It was plain that she could not do without him.
1566
In the name of friendship, King Charles had graciously decided to bestow the Order of St. Michael—France’s highest order of chivalry—upon two of Elizabeth
’s subjects, the choice to be hers. She named Leicester and Norfolk—Leicester because she needed once more to placate him for her failure to name the day, and Norfolk to preempt any jealousy. She need not have bothered. Norfolk was so resentful of Leicester receiving the honor that it took all her powers of persuasion to stop him from boycotting the investiture.
Robert was—almost—certain that the ceremony was a prelude to the announcement of his forthcoming marriage to the Queen. But Candlemas came and departed without Elizabeth mentioning marriage at all, let alone making a proclamation.
“How many more times will you break your word?” he raged.
Elizabeth sighed. “Robin, be patient, just for a little longer. This is a delicate time in regard to foreign negotiations. And to please me, pretend to support the Habsburg marriage.”
“Very well,” he flung back. “Marry the Archduke, for the sake of your realm. Don’t worry about me.”
“I commend you for your selflessness,” she said, deliberately ignoring his sarcasm.
He could not believe it when, later that day, he saw her brazenly flirting with the gallant Earl of Ormond. It was too much. After another violent quarrel, heated sufficiently, it seemed, to make the very walls combust, he left court.
He’d had enough, he told himself as he rode furiously to his house at Kew. He was weary of strife and the intrigues of the court, and Elizabeth’s endless, tortuous games. He was sick of being blamed for her failure to marry, even though he had urged her to do so countless times. Everyone marked his failings, never his better qualities.
Cecil wrote to him, as did Throckmorton. Feeling genuinely sorry for him, and concerned that the only viable husband for the Queen was out of her sight, and possibly—this was even more worrying—out of her mind, they kept him updated on state affairs. Robert wrote to Cecil that he despaired of Elizabeth ever marrying, and was taken aback to read that she was still in a vile mood, and that if he took Cecil’s advice he would stay away from court, lest he incur any more blame. When he thought about it, in truth he was glad to do so.