Exasperation filled the minds of those about her. Such feminine views should be suppressed. But it was well known that she could not endure ugly people near her. Only a few days earlier a lackey had been taken from her immediate service because he had lost a front tooth.

The Archduke was the best match available, she was reminded. The Earl of Sussex was sent to Austria to report on him, and sent back the news that his personal appearance left nothing to be desired, and that even his hands and feet were well-shaped.

“There is,” said Elizabeth, “the question of religion.”

The statesmen about her had now divided into two parties—one under the Duke of Norfolk, the other under Leicester. They could not agree as to the proposed marriage. Norfolk and his followers were for it. Robert, sensing her reluctance, which meant a rebirth of his own hopes, was against it. The Queen was still cool to him, but he knew her well enough to realize that she was not eager to marry the Archduke, and wished for this division between her statesmen.

It was characteristic of her that while she worried about her suitor’s personal appearance, while she became again coquettish and entirely feminine, she suddenly should put the matter so clearly before them that they were astounded by her insight and the truth of what she said.

“You talk of my marriage!” she cried. “You talk of the succession. My friends, look at France. There the succession is happily fixed, you would say. Yet that country has been torn by civil war. Look at Scotland! There is a Queen who married as you, my lords, would have wished. She has produced a fine son and that, my lords, is what you would say is a good thing. And here, in this country, there rules a barren woman. Yet, my lords, in this poor country under this poor woman, you have enjoyed peace and growing prosperity. What this country—what any country needs—is not an heir to the crown, but peace … peace from wars which torment it and suck away its riches. A week ago a man went to an altar while the service was in progress and he cast down the candlesticks and stamped upon them. There are many to support that man. In this country religious differences have not made wars. But what if your King were of the Catholic Faith, my lords? What if he wished to lead your Church back to Rome? We should have troubles such as you now see in France between Catholic and Huguenot. Nay! It is not a husband for your Queen that you need. It is not even an heir to your crown. It is peace. Think of my sister who made a foreign marriage. Think of these things, gentlemen, and see whether I am wrong to hesitate.”

As before, she had made them pause. She had shown them the statesman hidden behind the frivolous woman.

Now the coolness between them was over. She could not hide her pleasure in having him beside her. He was not to be arrogant, she wished him to understand; he was not to think her favor was exclusively his. He was never so far to forget his respect for her as to go courting another lady of her household. He was her servant, her courtier, but a very favorite one.

Who knew, in time, she might even marry him!

He was her “Eyes” once more. No one could amuse her as he could. She doubted not that if he would remember all she asked of him, he would rekindle that old affection which had seemed to die.

He was cautious now; he was wiser; he was not content merely to be the courtier. He would be the statesman also. He stood with Cecil to govern the country.

It became clear to those about him that they would be wise not to ignore him in the future. He might have his differences with the Queen; but he was still her favorite man.

When he fell ill, she was herself filled with anxiety. She visited him in his apartments on the lower floor of the palace and, examining them, declared that she feared they were damp and not good for his health. He should be moved to better quarters immediately, for she could not allow her Eyes to run such risks.

The quarters she chose for him were immediately adjoining her own.

A gasp of astonishment greeted this decision. It was an indiscretion which might have been committed in the days of her early passion for the man.

It became clear that, although there might be differences between them, those differences would be as ephemeral as lovers’ tiffs, provoked rather for the enjoyment of ultimate reconciliation than through anger or by a lessening of their love.

EIGHT

As time passed, Robert was constantly with the Queen, but their relationship had become a more sober one. He was still her favorite, but they were like a married couple who have passed through stages of passion to trust and friendship, which was, in its way, more satisfying than the earlier relationship had been.

All eyes were now watching events in Scotland, and the matrimonial adventures of Queen Mary were leading all England to think that, in remaining unmarried, Elizabeth was again showing her sagacity.

After the murder of Rizzio, the Queen’s husband—Darnley—had met a violent death in which many believed Mary to have played a part.

Elizabeth was alert. She thought of Mary in that wild and barbaric land, a dainty woman, brought up at the intellectual but immoral Court of France, a passionate and lustful woman who had a power to attract men which was apart from her crown.

Mary was weak in those characteristics which were the strength of Elizabeth. She would be impetuous where Elizabeth would always employ the greatest caution. Yet Elizabeth knew that there were some in the country—and this applied particularly to those staunch Catholics, the Northern Peers such as the Percys and the Nevilles—who would like to see Mary on the throne of England. Therefore, everything that Mary did was of the utmost importance to England.

But Mary was a fool in some matters, whereas Elizabeth was the wiliest woman in the world.

Elizabeth thought often of all that had happened to Mary. Had she, wondered Elizabeth, planned the murder of Darnley with that ruffian Bothwell? She knew that the barbaric chief—which was how she thought of Bothwell—had had to divorce his wife in order that he might marry Mary. Was it true that he had raped and abducted the Queen of Scots?

Mary was a fool to give great power to a man like Bothwell. Mary forgot that which Elizabeth would never forget—the dignity of queenship.

Cecil came to her with fresh news.

“Madam, the lords of Scotland have risen against Bothwell and the Queen. They accuse them of the murder of Darnley. Bothwell has escaped to Denmark and the Queen of Scots has been brought captive to Edinburgh.”

“A prisoner … in her own capital city!” cried the Queen.

“The people of Edinburgh have abused her as she passed through their streets. They cry out that she should be burned alive. They say she is an adulteress and a murderess, and should not be allowed to live.”

“How dare they!” cried Elizabeth. “And she a Queen!”

Cecil looked at her. His eyes were steady. He was telling her without words that if the people of Edinburgh should take it upon themselves to do what they would call justice to the Queen of Scotland, Elizabeth would be without a powerful rival. Perhaps his thoughts ran on as hers did. If they could have the baby Prince brought to England and put in charge of the Queen’s Parliament, much trouble might be saved.

Mary’s disaster was Elizabeth’s opportunity—as Cecil saw it.

But Elizabeth could not get out of her mind the picture of Mary, a captive, riding through the streets of Edinburgh, while the mob shouted at her. All other emotions were submerged by the horror of that picture, for Mary, like Elizabeth, was a Queen. How could one Queen rejoice in the insults thrown at another? Elizabeth might be jealous of Mary; she might even hate Mary; but she would never approve of insults being thrown at an anointed Queen, for no such evil precedent must be set.

Cecil, watching her, marveled at her yet again. The woman and the Queen! He could never be sure with which of them he had to deal.

When the little coffer of silver and gilt was brought to England, feelings ran high against Mary, for the coffer contained those letters—always known as the Casket Letters—which Bothwell was reputed to have left behind him in his flight. These letters—if they were not forgeries—damned the Queen, labeling her as Bothwell’s accomplice in the murder of Darnley.

Still Elizabeth would defend her. And when Mary escaped from her captors, raised men to fight for her, was defeated and threw herself once more on Elizabeth’s mercy, though there were many to urge the execution of this dangerous woman, still Elizabeth continued to remember that Mary was a Queen. Elizabeth must uphold the status of royalty. Kings and Queens might err, but the common people must see them as the chosen of God, and the peers must never be allowed to judge them. Mary was certainly a foolish woman; there was little doubt that she was a murderess; there was still less that she was an adulteress; but she was a Queen.

“The lords have no warrant nor authority by the law of God or man,” said Elizabeth, “to be superiors, judges, or vindicators over their Prince and Sovereign, howsoever they do gather and conceive matters of disorder against her.”

That was the Queen’s verdict, and she did not forget that Mary and Bothwell stood in relationship to Darnley as once she and Robert had to Amy Robsart.

She would have a dangerous enemy to contend with, but that enemy was merely a woman and a foolish one; she had the Catholics to consider; but these matters were tangible. A subtle canker growing in the minds of the people was an entirely different matter; for that grew unseen and unchecked; it could undermine all thrones, all royalty.