Виктория Холт - My Enemy the Queen

I often wonder whether it had some effect on the Queen's attitude to what happened soon after.

It was inevitable that, both at home and abroad, there should be speculation about her marriage. The country needed an heir; the recent troubles and dissensions which had beset us had been due to uncertainty about the succession. The Queen's ministers desired that she should choose a husband without delay and give the country what it wanted. She was not yet even middle-aged, neither was she so very young, though none would dare remind her of this.

Philip of Spain was making overtures. I heard her and Robert laughing about it because she had learned that the King had said that if he were persuaded to the match he would insist on Elizabeth's becoming a Catholic and he could not remain with her for long even if their brief encounter did not leave her pregnant. He could have said nothing more calculated to arouse her indignation. Become a Catholic!—when one of the main reasons for her popularity was her professed Protestantism and the cessation of the Smithfield Fires. And for any future husband to mention the fact that he wanted to escape from her as soon as possible was enough to bring about her haughty refusal.

But of course her ministers were eager for her to marry, and it seemed that, had it not been for the fact that Lord Robert was already married, some of them would have agreed to her union withhim. There was a great deal of envy directed against Robert. My long life, much of which has been lived among ambitious people, leads me to the belief that envy is more prevalent than any other emotion and certainly the deadliest of the seven sins. Robert had the Queen's favor to such an extent that she could not hide her fondness for him and showered honors on him; and those who would see that favor diminished found more suitable prospective husbands for her. The nephew of Philip of Spain—the Archduke Charles—was one of these suitors. The Duke of Saxony was another; then Prince Charles of Sweden was brought in. It was a case of the more the merrier as far as the Queen was concerned, and she delighted in teasing Robert by pretending to consider them, but she did not deceive many into thinking that she would accept any one of them. The prospect of marriage always excited her—even when she was much older—but her attitude to it forever remained a mystery. Somewhere at the back of her mind she greatly feared it, yet, at times, to consider it fascinated her as nothing else did. None of us ever understood that aspect of her character, which intensified as the years passed. At this time we were all unaware of it and everyone believed that she would marry sooner or later and that she would have taken one of her royal suitors if it had not been for Robert.

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.