Walter was proud of Chartley and I expressed great interest in it because it was to be my home. It had a circular keep and two round towers which were quite ancient, having been constructed as long ago as 1220. They had already stood up to more than three hundred years of wind and weather and looked ready to withstand three hundred more. The walls were twelve feet thick and the loopholes were built so that arrows could be shot horizontally, which made it a wonderful fortress.

There had been a building of some sort there in the days of the Conqueror before the castle was built and the present Chartley had been erected on that old site.

"It belonged to the Earls of Derby," Walter told me, "and it was during the reign of Henry VI that it came into the Devereux family, when one of the daughters of the house married a Walter Devereux, Earl of Essex. We've had it ever since."

I agreed that it was indeed a noble castle.

The first year of my marriage was happy enough. Walter was a devoted husband, deeply in love with me, and marriage and all it entailed agreed with my nature. I went occasionally to Court, where the Queen received me affectionately. I fancied she was more than mildly pleased that I was married, which showed that she had become aware of the pleasure I took in masculine society. She hated the attention of any man to stray from her even for a few moments, and perhaps she had noticed some of her favorites eye me with approval.

Walter had never been among those favored. He lacked that dashing gallantry which she so much admired. I think he was too innately honest to think up the extravagant compliments which they were all expected to pay and which when considered were really rather absurd. He was for the Queen and the country; he would serve them with his life; but he simply could not dance attendance on her as those in her innermost circle must.

This meant of course that we were not so often at Court as I had previously been, but when we did go she never forgot her good cousin—myself—and invariably wanted to hear how I was enjoying married life.

Oddly enough, I was quite prepared in those early days of marriage to spend a certain amount of time in the country. I even developed a fondness for the life. I took an interest in my home. It was cold and drafty in the winter and I had great fires roaring in the grates; I made rules for the servants. They must be up at six in summer and seven in winter; the beds and fireplaces must be cleaned by eight and fires started for the day. I became interested in the herb gardens and made one of the servants who was especially interested in herbal art instruct me. I arranged flowers in bowls and set them about the house; I sat with the women and embroidered the new altar cloth they were working on. It seems scarcely possible now that I could have thrown myself so whole-heartedly into the country life.

When my family visited us or we had people from the Court to stay, I took a pride in showing what a good housewife I had become. I was proud of our Venetian glasses, which sparkled so delightfully in candlelight when they were filled with good muscatel, romney or malmsey; and I made the servants polish the silver and pewter until the whole scene was reflected in their shining glory. I was determined that our table should be admired for the good fare we offered our guests. I liked to see it laden with meat and fowl and fish, pies fashioned into fanciful shapes, which usually contrived to do some honor to the visitors; and we did the same with marchpane and gingerbread, so everything was much admired.

People marveled. "Lettice has become the best of all hostesses," they said.

It was another trait in my nature that I must always be the best and this was like a new game to me. I was satisfied with my home and my husband; and I gave myself wholeheartedly to that enjoyment.

I used to love to walk through the castle and imagine the days of the past. I had the rushes swept regularly so that our castle was less odoriferous than most. We suffered a good deal from the proximity of the privies—but what house did not?—and I made a rule that the emptying of ours should be done while we were at Court so that we should escape that unpleasantness.

Walter and I would ride round the estate and sometimes walk near the castle. I shall always remember the day he showed me the cows in Chartley Park. They were slightly different from cows I had seen elsewhere.

"They are our very own Stafford cows," said Walter.

I examined them closely, interested because they were ours. They were sand-white in color and there were smudges of black on their muzzles, ears and hoofs.

"We must hope that none of them produce a black calf," Walter told me, and when I wanted to know why he explained: "There's a legend in the family. If a black calf appears that means there will be a death in the family."

"What nonsense!" I cried. "How can the birth of a black calf affect us?"

"It's one of those stories which become attached to families like ours. It all started at the time of the Battle of Burton Bridge when the owner of the house was killed and the castle passed temporarily out of the family."

"But it came back to them."

"Yes, but it was a tragic time. A black calf was born at that time and so it was said that black calves meant disaster for the Devereux family."

"Then we must make sure that no more are born."

"How?"

"Get rid of the cows."

He laughed at me tenderly. "My dear Lettice, that would indeed be defying fate. I am sure the penalty for that would be greater than the birth of a black calf."

I looked at those large-eyed placid creatures and said: "Please, no black calves."

And Walter laughed at me and kissed me and told me how happy he was that I had, after much persuasion, agreed to marry him.

Of course there was a reason for my contentment. I was pregnant.

My daughter Penelope was born a year after my marriage.

I experienced the delights of motherhood and of course my daughter was more beautiful, more intelligent and better in every way than any child who had been born before. I was well content to stay at Chartley with her and could not bear to leave her for long. Walter believed at that time that he had found the ideal wife. Poor Walter, he was always a man of poor judgment.

However, while I was crooning over my daughter, I became pregnant again, but I did not experience quite the same ecstasy over this one. I had never remained absorbed for any length of time in any of my enthusiasms and I found the prenatal months irksome. Penelope was showing a spirit of her own, which made her not quite the docile child she had been; and I was beginning to think with increasing longing of the Court and to wonder what was happening there.

I heard the news from time to time and a great deal of it was about the Queen and Robert Dudley. I could imagine how irritated Robert must be by her continued refusal to marry him now that he was free. Oh, but she was wily. How could she marry him and escape the smears of scandal? She never could. For as long as she lived, if she did so, she would be suspected of complicity in the murder of Amy Dudley. People still talked of it—even in country places like Chartley. Some murmured that there was one law for the people and another for the Queen's favorites. There were few people in England who did not believe Robert at least guilty of his wife's murder.

Strangely enough, the effect it had on me was to make me more fascinated than ever. He was a strong man, a man who would have his way. I indulged in fantasies about him and was delighted because the Queen would not have him.

Walter continued to be a good husband, but that wonder he had found in my society—and which had endeared him to me— was no longer there. A man cannot go on being amazed at the sexual prowess of his wife, I suppose; I was certainly not enchanted by his, which had never seemed to me more than one might have expected from any man. It was only because I had been eager for such experiences that I had been so delighted by them. Now with a year-old daughter and another child clamoring to be born, I went through a period of disenchantment, and for the first time I began to be unfaithful... in thought.

I could not go to Court in my state but I was always eager to know what was going on there. Walter came back to Chartley with news that the Queen was ill and not expected to live.

I felt a terrible depression, cheated—which was strange, for I could not see into the future. Perhaps it was a blessing that I could not, though even if I could have foreseen I wonder if I should have acted differently. I doubt it.

Walter was gloomy and I guessed my parents too were wondering what would happen to the country if the Queen died. There was a possibility that Mary Queen of Scots, who had been forced to leave France on the death of her young husband Francois Deux, might be offered the throne.

"Why," said Walter, "two of the Pole brothers did their best to march on London, their object being to put Mary Stuart on the throne. Of course they declared they had no wish to do this and merely wanted the Queen to name Mary of Scotland as her successor."

"And bring back Catholicism!" I cried.

"That was their aim."

"And the Queen?"

"Sick unto death. She sent for Dudley. She would have him with her at the end, she said."

" 'Tis not the end yet," I put in quickly.

I looked at Walter and thought: If she dies, Robert will marry. And now I am married to Walter Devereux!

And I think it was in that moment that I began to dislike my husband.

"She sent for him," went on Walter, "and told him that if she had not been Queen she would have been his wife. Then she called her ministers to her bedside and told them that it was her dying wish that Robert Dudley be made Protector of the Realm."

I caught my breath. "She really does care for him," I said.

"Did you have any doubt of it?"

"She would not marry him."

"Nay, for he stands suspected of murdering his wife."

"I wonder ..." I began; and I was picturing her carried to her grave, her brief reign over. And what would happen to the country? Some would try to put Mary of Scotland on the throne; and there would be others who wanted the Lady Catharine Grey. We could be plunged into civil war. But the question which plagued me most was: What will Robert do if she dies? And I was asking myself if I had hurried too quickly into marriage and whether it would have been better to have waited a while.

Then I gave birth to my second child—a daughter and I called her Dorothy.

The Queen recovered, which was what might have been expected of her. Moreover she had come through unscathed, which was rare. Robert's sister Mary, who was married to Henry Sidney, had been with the Queen night and day attending to all her needs, caught the smallpox from her and was severely disfigured. I heard that Lady Mary asked leave to retire from Court, permission which could scarcely be denied in the circumstances was given, and she went to her family estate at Penshurst, from where she never really wanted to emerge again. Her reward for nursing Elizabeth, who was not likely to forget it. One of the Queen's virtues was her loyalty to those who served her; besides, Mary Sidney was her beloved Robert's sister.

Walter said that people again believed that a marriage between the Queen and Robert might now take place.

"But why should it be acceptable now when it was not a short time ago?" I demanded.

"It's not such a short while," Walter reminded me, "and the people are so delighted to have her well again that they would be prepared to accept anything. They want her married. They want an heir to the throne. Her recent illness has shown how dangerous it could be if she died without heirs."

"She won't die until she wants to," I said grimly.

"That," retorted Walter coolly, "is in the hands of God."

So the Court was soon as it was before her illness. Robert was back in favor, always at her side, always hopeful, I had no doubt; and perhaps more so than ever now that it was being hinted that people would accept a marriage between them.

The Queen was in high spirits—happy to be well again. She pardoned the Pole brothers, a gesture which was typical of her. She wanted to show her people how merciful she was and that she bore no grudges to any. The Poles were exiled, though—and the Court was gay again.

But there was no announcement of her betrothal to Robert.