Philippa Gregory - The Virgin's Lover

“She’s on the throne but not anointed,” Cecil said grimly. “I pray that the day comes when I can say ‘queen’ and know it is nothing more nor less than the truth. But how can I get her anointed, if no one will do it?”

“She can hardly burn them all,” Dudley said with unwarranted cheerfulness.

“Quite so.”

“But what if they thought she might convert?”

“They’ll hardly believe that, after she stormed out of her own chapel on Christmas Day.”

“If they thought that she would marry Philip of Spain, they would crown her,” Dudley suggested slyly. “They would trust him to forge a compromise. They saw him handle Queen Mary. They’d trust Elizabeth under his control.”

Cecil hesitated. “Actually, they might.”

“You could tell those men, in the strictest confidence, that she is considering him,” Dudley advised. That’s the best way to make sure everyone hears it. Suggest that he will come over for the wedding and create a new settlement for the church in England. He liked her before, and she encouraged him enough, God knows. Everyone thought they would make a match of it as soon as her sister was cold. You could say they are all but betrothed. She’s attended Mass almost every day for the last five years, they all know that well enough. She is accommodating when she has to be. Remind them of it.”

“You want me to use the old scandals of the princess as a mask for policy?” Cecil demanded sarcastically. “Hold her up to shame as a woman who bedded her brother-in-law as her own sister lay dying?”

“Elizabeth? Shame?” Dudley laughed in Cecil’s face. “She’s not been troubled by shame since she was a girl. She learned then that you can ride out shame if you keep your nerve and admit nothing. And she’s not troubled by lust either. Her “scandals” as you call them—excepting the one with Thomas Seymour, which got out of hand—are never accidental. Since her romping with Seymour led him to the scaffold, she has learned her lesson. Now she deploys her desires; they do not drive her. She’s not a fool, you know. She’s survived this far. We have to learn from her, learn to use everything we have: just as she has always done. Her marriage is our greatest weapon. Of course we have to use it. What d’you think she was doing all the time that she was flirting with Philip of Spain? She wasn’t driven by desire, God knows. She was playing the only card she had.”

Cecil was about to argue but then he stopped himself. Something in Dudley’s hard eyes reminded him of Elizabeth’s when he had once warned her of falling in love with Philip. Then she had shot him the same bright, cynical look. The two of them might be young people, only in their mid-twenties, but they had been taught in a hard school. Neither of them had any time for sentiment.

“Carlisle might do it,” Cecil said thoughtfully. “If he thought she was seriously considering Philip as a husband, and if I could assure him that by doing it, he would save her from heresy.”

Dudley put a hand on his shoulder. “Someone has to do it or she’s not queen,” he pointed out. “We have to get her crowned by a bishop in Westminster Abbey or all this is just mummery and wishful thinking. Jane Grey was queen as much as this, and Jane Grey’s rule was ten days long, and Jane Grey is dead.”

Cecil shrugged involuntarily, and moved away from Dudley’s touch.

“All right,” Dudley said, understanding the older man’s diffidence. “I know! Jane died for my father’s ambition. I know that you steered your course out of it at the time. You were wiser than most. But I’m no plotter, Sir William. I will do my job and I know that you can do yours without my advice!”

“I am sure you are a true friend to her, and the best Master of Horse she could have appointed,” Cecil offered with his faint smile.

“I thank you,” Dudley said with courtesy. “And so you force me to tell you that that animal of yours is too short in the back. Next time you are buying a saddle horse, come to me.”

Cecil laughed at the incorrigible young man; he could not help himself. “You are shameless like her!” he said.

“It is a consequence of our greatness,” Dudley said easily. “Modesty is the first thing to go.”

Amy Dudley was seated in the window of her bedroom at Stanfield Hall in Norfolk. At her feet were three parcels tied with ribbon, bearing labels that read “To my dearest husband from your loving wife.” The writing on the labels was in fat irregular capitals, like a child might write. It had taken Amy some time and trouble to copy the words from the sheet of paper that Lady Robsart had written for her, but she had thought that Robert would be pleased to see that she was learning her letters at last.

She had bought him a handsome Spanish leather saddle, emblazoned with his initials on the saddle flap, and studded with gold nails. His second present was three linen shirts, sewn by Amy herself, white on white embroidery on the cuffs and down the front band. Her third present to him was a set of hawking gloves, made of the softest, smoothest leather, as cool and as flexible as silk, with his initials embroidered in gold thread by Amy, using an awl to pierce the leather.

She had never sewn leather before and even with a cobbler’s glove to guard her hand she had pricked her palm all over with little red painful dots of blood.

“You could have embroidered his gloves with your own blood!” her stepmother laughed at her.

Amy said nothing but waited for Robert, secure that she had beautiful gifts for him, and that he would see the love that had gone into every stitch, into every letter. She waited and she waited through the twelve days of the Christmas feast; and when finally she sat at the window, and looked south down the gray road to London on the evening of Twelfth Night, she acknowledged at last that he was not coming, that he had sent her no gifts, that he had not even sent a message to say he would not come.

She felt shamed by his neglect, too ashamed even to go down to the hall where the rest of her family was gathered: Lady Robsart, merry with her four children and their husbands and wives, their young children, screaming with laughter at the mummers and dancing to the music. Amy could not face their secret amusement at the depth and completeness of her fall from a brilliant marriage into the greatest family in England, to being the neglected wife of a former criminal.

Amy was too grieved to be angry with Robert for promising to come and then failing her. Worst of all—she felt in her heart that it was no surprise he did not come to her. Robert Dudley was already being spoken of as the most handsome man at court, the queen’s most glamorous servant, her most able friend. Why should he leave such a court, all of them attuned to joy, ringing with their own good luck, where he was Master of the Revels and lord of every ceremony, to come to Norfolk in midwinter to be with Amy and her stepmother, at a house where he had never been welcome, that he had always despised?

With this question unanswered, Amy spent Twelfth Night with his presents at her cold feet, and her eyes on the empty road, wondering if she would see her husband ever again.

It had been Dudley’s Christmas Feast as much as Elizabeth’s; everyone agreed it. It had been Dudley’s triumphant return to court, as much as Elizabeth’s. Dudley had been at the heart of every festivity, planning every entertainment, first up on his horse for hunting, first on the floor for dancing. He was a prince come to his own again in the palace where his father had ruled.

“My father used to have it so…” he would say negligently, choosing one style or another, and everyone was reminded that all the most recent successful Christmas feasts had been ordered by the Lord Protector Dudley, and Elizabeth’s brother, the young King Edward, had been a passive spectator, never the commander.