It was galling to receive the news through Walter and those who came to Chartley to visit us, because they never told me all I wanted to know. As soon as I had recovered from Dorothy's birth, I promised myself, I would go to Court again. The Queen would welcome me and I rehearsed how I would kneel before her with tears of joy in my eyes at her recovery. I knew how to produce those tears with the juice of certain plants. Then I would cajole her into giving me her version of events and I would tell her how a quiet life in the country was no worthy substitute for her royal apartments. She was always a little envious of babies—but perhaps not so much of girls.

She received me with a show of affection and I did my scene, implying thankfulness for her recovery, which I managed very well, and which I fancied touched her, for she kept me at her side and gave me some plum-colored velvet to have made into a gown and a lace ruff with a wire underpropper to go with it. It was a mark of her favor.

It was while I was at Court that news came that the Archduke Charles—that suitor whom she had declined—was now seeking the hand of Mary Queen of Scots. The intensity of Elizabeth's feelings towards that royal rival would not be disguised. She was inordinately interested in Mary. If she gleaned any information about her, she would be tense with concentration; and she never forgot any detail of what she had been told. She was jealous of Mary not because of the Scottish Queen's unquestionable legitimacy, nor because of her claim to the throne, but because Mary was reputed to be one of the most beautiful women in the world; and the fact that she was also a queen made comparison natural. That Mary was beautiful and talented, there was no doubt; but I felt sure she could not have possessed one hundredth part of the shrewd cunning and that heaven-sent cleverness of our own Lady Elizabeth.

I fell to thinking how different their lives had been. Mary, the petted darling of the French Court, fawned on, loved by her father-in-law and his mistress Diane de Poitiers, who was of far greater importance than Queen Catherine de' Medici, doted on by her young husband, beloved of the poets. And our Elizabeth, growing through her uneasy childhood and girlhood, never very far from death. I think it was probably this which had made her what she was; and in that case it was doubtless worthwhile.

It was amazing that one who was as clever as she was could not have seen fit to hide her jealous rage because the Archduke was seeking Mary's hand. Had she suffered it in private it would have been a different matter, but she sent for William Cecil, was abusive in her reference to that "Rake of Austria" and declared that she would never give her consent to a marriage between him and Mary, and she wished Mary to be advised that since she considered herself heiress to the crown of England, it behooved her to take heed of the opinion of England's Queen.

Cecil was afraid that the Queen's outburst would be ridiculed by the foreigners concerned and when the Emperor of Austria wrote to the effect that his son had been insulted and he had no intention of submitting himself to that indignity again, the Queen smirked and nodded.

Robert must have felt his chances were good at that time. I caught glimpses of him now and then and there was no doubt that he was very sure of himself. He was constantly with the Queen, alone in her apartments; so it was small wonder that people like Mrs. Dowe believed the rumors which were spread about them. But it seemed that Elizabeth was still thinking of the Amy Dudley affair and that was why she went on holding back.

When we heard that another of her suitors, Eric of Sweden, had fallen romantically in love, she could not stop herself repeating the story over and over again. He had seen a beautiful girl named Kate selling nuts outside the palace and had become so enamored of her that he had married her. It was like a fairy story, said Elizabeth. So touching. But what great stroke of good fortune for poor Kate that she had refused Eric! Indeed, she said, Kate should be as grateful to her as she was to her lover. But it was clear that a man who could marry a nut seller was no mate for the Queen of England.

She loved to discuss her suitors. She would often make me sit beside her while she went over details of the offers of marriage which had been made to her. "And here I am, still a virgin," she sighed.

"But not for long, Your Majesty," I said.

"Think you not so?"

"There are so many seeking the honor, Madam. You will, I doubt not, decide to accept one and make him the happiest man on earth."

The tawny eyes were half closed. I guessed she was thinking of her Sweet Robin.

Ever since she had heard that the Archduke Charles had offered himself as a husband for Mary Queen of Scots, she had made much of the Scottish Ambassador, Sir James Melville. She played the virginals for him—she performed with great skill on this instrument—she sang and above all she danced, for of all social activities, dancing was her favorite and, as I have said, the one at which she most excelled. She was so slender and she carried herself with such dignity that in a room of dancers she would always have been selected as the Queen.

She would demand of Melville how he had liked a performance and always there would be a request to know how it compared with that of his mistress, the Queen of Scots.

I, and other women of the Court, used to laugh at the manner in which poor Melville strove to give the right answer which would compliment Elizabeth without denigrating in one whit the accomplishments of Mary. Elizabeth would seek to trap him, and sometimes she would snap at him because she could not lure him into admitting her superiority.

It was astonishing how such a woman could be so concerned with the vanities of life; but of course she was vain. She and Robert were matched in that. They both believed themselves to be supreme: he, certain that in due course he would overcome her resistance—and when he married I reckoned that he promised himself he would be the master—and she determined always to call the tune. The crown glittered between them. She could not bear to share it with anyone, and he was so determined in his pursuit—of the woman or the crown? I thought I knew, but I wondered whether Elizabeth did.

One day she was clearly in a good mood. She was smiling to herself while we dressed her—for when I was at Court I was brought back to the bedchamber. I think she liked to have me there to gossip to. It was said that she liked the occasional tart retort for which I was getting a reputation. After all, if I went too far I could always be given a black look, a blow, or one of those painful nips which she was so fond of administering as a warning to those who she considered had taken advantage of the favor she had shown them.                                                     •

She was smiling and nodding to herself; and when I saw her with Robert I could tell by the manner in which she looked at him that whatever was in her mind concerned him.

When the secret was out none of us could believe it.

She had long had the welfare of her Scottish cousin close to her heart and she made it known that she believed she had found the perfect bridegroom for her. It was a man whom she prized above all others, one who had already proved himself her most faithful servant. The Queen of Scots would know how deeply she esteemed her when she offered her the finest man in her kingdom as a husband. None other than Robert Dudley.

I heard that Robert gave way to furious rage when he heard. It must have seemed like the death knell to all his hopes. He knew very well that Mary would never accept him, and the fact that Elizabeth offered him showed that she had no intention of accepting him herself.

There was a deep silence in the apartments that day. Everyone was afraid to speak. It was not long before Robert came striding in. He pushed everyone aside and went into her private chamber, and we heard their shouting as they talked together. I doubt there has ever been such a scene between Queen and subject, but of course Robert was no ordinary subject, and we could all understand his fury.

Suddenly they were quieter and we wondered what that meant. When Robert came out he looked at none of us but he had an air of confidence, and we all wondered what had happened between them to produce that.

We soon learned.

It could not be expected that a Queen could consider marrying the mere son of a duke. Lord Robert must be elevated. Elizabeth had therefore decided to bestow honors on him and he was to be made Earl of Leicester and Baron of Denbigh—a title which had never been used by anyone but a royal personage—and the estates of Kenilworth and Astel Grove were to be his.

Everyone was smirking behind their hands. Of course she was not going to relinquish her Sweet Robin. She wanted to do him honor and this seemed a good way of doing it while, at the same time, she insulted the Queen of Scots.

We at Court understood her motive, but the people would see it differently. She had suggested a match between the Queen of Scots and Robert Dudley. How wrong all the scandalous gossip had been about the murder of Dudley's wife! The Queen was certainly not involved, for she had not married him when she could and now she was offering him to the Queen of Scots!

Our clever Queen had achieved her purpose. Robin received his honors and people ceased to lay part of the blame for the murder of his wife at the door of the Queen.

I was present when the honors were bestowed on Robert. It was a very ceremonial occasion indeed which took place in Westminster Palace; and I had rarely seen the Queen in such a happy mood. Of course he looked magnificent in his glittering doublet, his satin bombasted breeches and his elegant ruff of silver lace. He held his head high; he would come out of that hall a much richer and more influential man than he had gone in. A short while ago he had thought all hope of marriage with the Queen was over since she had announced her determination to banish him to Scotland. But now he knew that she had no intention of doing this and it had just been a ruse in order that she could comfortably shower gifts on him—an assurance of her affection when he had feared her indifference.

Elizabeth entered the hall a scintillating figure, love for Robert softening her face, making her almost beautiful. Before her, carrying the sword of state, walked a very tall young man—little more than a boy—who, it was whispered to me, was Lord Darnley. I scarcely looked at him then, my attention being all for Robert, although I should have paid more attention to him if I had known what part he would play in the future.

All eyes, of course, were on that pair, the two principal actors in the scene; and I marveled as I had so often in the past—and was to do in the future—at the Queen's blatant exposure of her feelings for him.

Robert knelt before her while she fastened the mantle about his neck, and as she did so, to the amazement of all, she put her fingers inside the collar and tickled his neck as though she found the desire to touch him in this way irresistible.

I was not the only one who noticed. I saw Sir James Melville and the French Ambassador exchange glances, and I thought: This will be reported throughout Europe and in Scotland. The Queen of Scots had already professed herself to have been insulted by the suggested match and referred to Robert as the Queen's Horse Master.

Elizabeth did not seem to care. She turned to Melville, for she must have seen the look he exchanged with the Frenchman. There was very little she missed.

"Well," she cried, "what think you of my Lord Leicester, eh? Methinks you like better yon lang lad." She nodded towards Lord Darnley and I saw Melville flinch a little. I did not understand then, but later I realized she was letting him know that she was aware of the supposedly secret negotiations which were in progress to marry Mary of Scotland to Lord Darnley. It was characteristic of her that while she tickled Robert's neck she was considering the outcome of a marriage between Mary and the tall young man.

Later she pretended to be against it while at the same time doing everything she could to bring it about. She had summed up Darnley—not yet twenty years old, very slender so that he looked even taller than he in fact was, a pretty boy with round, rather prominent blue eyes and soft skin as delicately colored as a peach. The effect was charming enough for anyone who liked pretty boys. He had a veneer of pleasant manners, too, but there was something peevish and even cruel about those slack lips. He played the lute well and danced charmingly, and of course he had a flimsy claim to the succession, for his mother was the daughter of Margaret Tudor, Henry VIII's sister.