Виктория Холт - My Enemy the Queen

But Robert was there, always at her side, her Sweet Robin, her Eyes, her Master of Horse.

From Scotland came another offer. This time from the Earl of Arran but this was summarily dismissed by the Queen.

In the apartments of the Queen's women we used to whisper together. We speculated and I was often warned because of my boldness.

"You'll overstep the mark one day, Lettice Knollys," I was told. "Then the Queen will send you packing—Boleyn cousin though you may be."

I used to shiver at the thought of being sent back in disgrace to the boredom of Rotherfield Greys. I already had several admirers. Cecilia was sure I should have an offer of marriage before long, but I did not want to marry yet. I wanted time to make the right choice. I longed for a lover, although I was far too astute to take one before marriage. I had heard stories of girls who became pregnant and were dismissed from Court and married off to some country squire and doomed to spend the rest of their lives in the dullness of the country and endure their acquired husband's reproaches for their light behavior and the great good he had done them by marrying them. So I enjoyed my flirtations, going so far and no farther, and exchanging accounts of adventures with girls of a like nature.

I used to let myself dream that Lord Robert looked my way and I wondered what would happen if he did. I could not regard him as a suitor because he already had a wife, and if he had not, doubtless he would have been the Queen's husband by this time. But there was no harm in allowing myself to imagine that he came courting me and how, in spite of the Queen, we met and laughed together because she was not the one he wanted. Wild fancies—premonitions, I thought later—for at that time they were but fancies. Robert would never allow his gaze to stray from the Queen.

I remember one occasion when she was in a thoughtful mood. Her temper had been none too good because she had heard that Philip of Spain was to marry Elizabeth of Valois, daughter of Henri Deux of France, and although she did not want a suitor she did not like anyone else to have him.

"She's a Catholic already," she commented, "so he'll not have to bother about that. And as she is of little importance she can leave her country and go to Spain. The poor thing won't have to worry about being left, pregnant or otherwise."

"Your Majesty knew well how to deal with such ungallant conduct," I said soothingly.

She snorted. She had some very unfeminine habits sometimes. She looked at me quizzically. "I wish him joy of her and her of him—though I fear she'll get little. What disturbs me is the alliance between two of my enemies."

"Since Your Majesty came to the throne your people have ceased to fear their enemies abroad."

"Then more fool they!" she snapped. "Philip is a powerful man and England must always be wary of him. As for France ... it has a new king now and a new queen ... two sad little people, I believe, though one of them is my own Scottish kinswoman of whose beauty poets prate."

"As they do of Your Majesty's."

She bowed her head but her eyes were fierce. "She dares call herself Queen of England—that Scottish girl, who spends her time dancing and urging poets to write odes to her. They say her charm and beauty are unsurpassed."

"She is the Queen, Madam."

The fierce eyes were on me. I had slipped. If one queen's beauty was measured by her royalty, what of another?

"So you think that is why they praise her, then?"

I called in the helpful and anonymous "They." "They say, Madam, that Mary Stuart is light in her fancies and surrounds herself with lovers who curry favor by writing odes to her beauty." I was crafty. I must extricate myself from her displeasure. "They say, Madam, that she is by no means as beautiful as hearsay would have us believe. She is over tall, ungainly and suffers from spots."

"Is that so, then?"

I breathed more freely and tried to remember anything derogatory I had heard against the Queen of France and Scotland, and I could only recall praise.

So I said: "They say that Lord Robert's wife is sick of a fatal disease and that she cannot last the year."

She closed her eyes and I was not sure whether I dared go on. "They say!" They say!" she burst out suddenly. "Who says?"

She turned on me sharply and nipped my arm. I could have cried out with the pain, for those beautiful pointed fingers were capable of very sharp nips.

"I but repeat gossip, Madam, because I think it may amuse Your Majesty."

"I would hear what is said."

"So I thought."

"And what else say They of Lord Robert's wife?"

"That she lives quietly in the country and that she is unworthy of him and that it was ill luck that he should have married when he was but a boy."

She sat back nodding, and there was a smile about her lips.

It was not long after that when I heard that Lord Robert's wife was dead. She had been discovered at the bottom of a staircase at Cumnor Place with her neck broken.

The Court was agog. None dared talk of it in the presence of the Queen, but they could scarcely wait to do so out of her sight and hearing.

What had happened to Amy Dudley? Had she committed suicide? Was it an accident? Or had she been murdered?

In view of all the rumors which had persisted through the last months, in view of the fact that the Queen and Robert Dudley behaved like lovers, and Robert seemed to have a conviction that soon he would marry the Queen, the last suggestion did not seem an impossibility.

We whispered about it and forgot to watch our words. My parents sent for me and lectured me severely on the need for the utmost discretion. I could see that my father was worried.

"This could rob Elizabeth of her throne," I heard him tell my mother. Certainly he was worried, for the Knollys fortunes were as ever wrapped up in those of our royal kinswoman.

The rumors grew more and more unpleasant. I heard that the Spanish Ambassador had written to his master that the Queen had told him Lady Dudley was dead several days before she was found dead at the bottom of the stairs. This was completely damning, but I could hardly accept it as truth. If Elizabeth and Robert were planning to have Amy murdered, Elizabeth would never have told the Spanish ambassador that she was dead before she was. De Quadra was wily; it was in his country's interest to discredit the Queen. This was what he was trying to do. Being aware of the potent masculinity of Robert Dudley, I could imagine a woman's going to great lengths to get him. I put myself in Elizabeth's position and asked myself: Would I? And I could well picture our plotting together in the heat of our passion.

We all waited tensely for what would happen next.

I could not believe that the Queen would ever put her crown in jeopardy for any man, and that if Amy had been murdered, she would have allowed herself to become involved. Of course she was capable of indiscretion. One only had to remember the case of Thomas Seymour when she had allowed herself to be led into a very dangerous state of affairs. Ah, but the crown was not hers at that time and she had not then begun that passionate devotion to it.

The great point was that Robert was now free to marry her. The whole Court, the whole country, and, I suspected, the whole of Europe waited to see how she would respond. One thing was clear. On the day she married Robert Dudley she would be judged guilty, and that was what men like my father were afraid of.

The first thing she did was send Robert away from Court, which was wise. They must not be seen together so that people would in any way connect the Queen with the tragedy.

Robert, expressing great distress—feigned or otherwise (although perhaps he could have been distraught by what had happened even if he had arranged it)—sent his cousin, Thomas Blount, to Cumnor Place to take charge of the proceedings, and there followed an inquest at which the verdict was Accidental Death.

How difficult Elizabeth was during the weeks which followed. It was so easy to offend her. She swore at us—she could curse like her royal father, it was said, and took a great pleasure in using his favorite oaths—and then would give us a nip or a slap. I believed she was undergoing torment. She wanted Robert and yet she knew that to marry him would be tantamount to an admission of guilt. She would know that in the streets of the cities people would be discussing the death of Amy Dudley, and the words of Mother Dowe would be remembered. Her people would suspect her; if she married Robert they would not respect her again. A queen had to be above ordinary passions. They would see her as merely a weak and sinful woman; and she knew that if she were to keep her hold on the glittering crown she must retain her people's devotion.

At least that was what I surmised occupied her thoughts as she loured in her apartments. But later I began to think I was wrong.

Robert returned to Court—bold and boastful, certain that soon he would be the Queen's husband. After a while he grew sullen, and I, in common with the rest of the world, badly wanted to know what they said to each other when they were alone.

Now I believe that she had no hand in Amy's death, that in a way she had no real wish to marry Robert; she preferred to be unattainable as she had been while his wife lived. She wanted Robert to have a neglected wife not a dead one. Perhaps she did not want marriage because in a strange way she was afraid of it. She wanted romantic attachments; she wanted admirers pining for her love; but she wanted none of that climax which would be triumphant for them and so distasteful to her.

I wonder if that were indeed so.

Whatever the reason, she did not marry Robert. She was too wily for that.

And it was at this time that Walter Devereux came to my notice.

I married Walter in the year 1561, when I was in my twenty-first year. My parents were pleased with the match, and the Queen readily gave it her nod of approval. Walter was the second Viscount of Hereford then, about the same age as myself, and because his family was one of standing, it was considered a good match. The Queen remarked that it was time I had a husband, which gave me some misgiving and I wondered if she had noticed that my eyes often wandered in Robert Dudley's direction.

I had come to the conclusion that Robert would never marry anybody but the Queen. Walter had asked me several times to be his wife. I was quite fond of him and my parents wanted the match. He was young and, as my father pointed out, appeared to have a good future ahead of him which would keep him at Court, so I chose him from several suitors and settled for married life.

It is not easy to remember in detail how I felt about Walter, all those years ago. The Queen had hinted that I was a girl who should be married—and she was right. I believe for a while I even thought I was in love with Walter and gave up dreaming of Robert Dudley.

After the ceremony, Walter and I went to his ancestral home, Chartley Castle, a rather impressive edifice rising from a fertile plain. From its high turrets it was possible to see some of the finest scenery in Staffordshire. It was about six miles southeast of the town of Stafford and situated halfway between Rugby and Stone.