Виктория Холт - My Enemy the Queen

Penelope was in her sixth year—a beautiful child, bright and willful. I could see myself in her very clearly. Dorothy, a year younger, was quieter, but nonetheless determined to have her own way. They, at least, were delighted to see me; and my parents had been right when they said they would bring me consolation.

Walter came to Chartley. He had served with Ambrose Dudley, Earl of Warwick, with whom he had become very friendly. I was interested to hear of Warwick because he was Robert's elder brother and had been under sentence of death with him in the Tower of London for involvement in the attempt to put Lady Jane Grey on the throne.

Walter was as loving as he had been in the early days of our marriage, and as for myself I was nonetheless attractive for having extended my experience. But how different he was from Robert, and how I railed against fate for marrying me to Walter Devereux when there was a man like Robert Dudley in the world.

However, my nature being what it was, I was able to derive some pleasure from my relationship with Walter, and at least he was devoted to me.

It was not long before I was pregnant.

"This time," said Walter, "it will be a boy."

We went to one of Walter's country houses—Netherwood in Herefordshire—which he thought would be more healthy for me, and there on a dark November day my child was born. I must confess to a great exultation when I learned it was a boy. Walter was delighted and ready to indulge me for giving him that which, like most men, he most desired—a son and heir.

The question arose of what we should call him. Walter suggested that he should be named Richard after his father, or possibly Walter, after himself. But I said I should like to get away from family names, and I had a fancy for the name of Robert; and as Walter was ready to please me that became the boy's name.

I was delighted with him, for from the start he was a most handsome child, bright and clearly intelligent. Oddly enough— and I surprised myself in this—I became absorbed by him; he helped to soothe my hurt and, wonder of wonders, I ceased to fret for the Court.

Eight years passed before I saw Robert Dudley again, and a great deal had happened in the world during that time.

My son had changed the household. His sisters doted on him and all the servants adored him; his father was inordinately proud of him and, oddest of all, I wanted nothing more at that time than to care for him. I would not leave him to his nurses, because I could not bear that they might take his affection from me.

At this time, Walter had every reason to be very content with his marriage. I often thought of Robert Dudley with longing, but, being away from him, I was able to look the facts straight in the face. They were not very palatable for a woman of my pride.

Robert Dudley had made me his mistress temporarily because he was out of favor with the Queen, and as soon as she had beckoned him it was "Goodbye, Lettice. It would be unwise for us to meet again."

My pride was as strong as my physical needs. I was going to try to forget that episode. My family—and in particular my adored son—would help me to do so. I threw myself into the management of my household and for a time became a model wife. I spent some hours in my stillroom. I grew a variety of herbs which my servants used for flavoring dishes and I was constantly trying something new. I made perfumes from lavender, roses and hyacinths; I found new ways of mingling fragrant wild flowers with rushes and frequently used meadowsweet, which the Queen had made fashionable because she had once said it reminded her of the country. I sent for fine cloths—brocades, velvet and grogram—which made my servants goggle-eyed, accustomed as they were to fustian and kersey. My seamstresses were good but of course could not catch the stylish mode of the Court. Never mind! I was a queen in the country and people talked of me—of my elegance, of my table, of the wines I gave to my guests—muscatel, malmsey and those from Italy which I served with my own spices. When visitors came from Court I tried to impress them. I wanted them to return and talk to me that he might know that I could live very satisfactorily without him.

In this domestic atmosphere it was natural that I should become pregnant again. Two years after Robert's birth, I produced yet another son and this time I thought it only fair to name him after his father. So he became Walter.

Events of great moment had been happening in the outside world during those years. Darnley, the husband of Mary Queen of Scots, had died mysteriously in a house in Kirk o' Field just outside Edinburgh. This house had been blown up by gunpowder quite obviously in an attempt to remove Darnley, but the unfortunate man must have had warning of the explosion and had tried to escape. He did not get very far. He was found in the garden of the house—dead but untouched by the explosion, and as there was no sign of violence it was presumed that he had been suffocated by a damp cloth's being held over his mouth. So it was clearly a case of murder. Since Mary was deeply enamored of the Earl of Bothwell—and hated her husband Darnley—and Bothwell had divorced his wife, it seemed clear who was behind the murder.

I must confess that when the news came to Chartley of what had happened I felt a strong desire to be at Court so that I might acquire Elizabeth's reactions at firsthand. I could imagine the horror she would express and the delight she would hide at the predicament in which the Queen of Scots must find herself. At the same time she might be a little uneasy. People would surely be reminded of a similar dilemma in which she had been caught when Robert Dudley's wife had been found dead at the bottom of that staircase in Cumnor Place.

If the Queen of Scots married Bothwell, her throne would surely be in jeopardy. It would be assumed that she had been an accomplice in her husband's murder. Moreover, her position was by no means as strong as Elizabeth's. I could never prevent myself smiling when I remembered the chorus of adulation every time the Queen appeared, and even men like Cecil and Bacon seemed to think she was divine. I sometimes thought that she insisted on this partly because she could not forget the existence of the Queen of Scots, who, common sense told her, was more beautiful than she could ever be even with all her false hair, her chalk and rouge and extravagantly glittering garments.

Events followed quickly after that. At first I would not believe it when I heard that Mary had lost no time in marrying Bothwell. Foolish woman! Why had she not considered the example of our shrewd and wily Elizabeth at the time of her involvement? Mary could not have proclaimed her guilt more loudly to the world; and even if she had not been concerned in Darnley's murder, the stories about Bothwell's being her lover while Darnley lived now appeared to be true.

In a brief space of time there had followed the defeat at Carberry Hill. I felt so restive then. I wanted to be at Court, to see those large tawny eyes expressing so much while they hid so much more. She would be angry at the insult to royalty. Many people remembered that Catherine of Valois, widow of Henry the Fifth, had entered into a not very reputable liaison with Owen Tudor, a Welshman of obscure background and no fortune to speak of. Whether they had even married or not was uncertain; but by him she had three sons, the eldest of whom married Margaret Beaufort and became the Earl of Richmond; and these two were the parents of Henry the Seventh. A flimsy claim to the throne indeed, and so, because of her somewhat doubtful Tudor roots, she was always insistent that due honor be paid to the blood royal. She would deplore the fact that a queen had ridden through the streets of Edinburgh seated on a jennet wearing a tradeswoman's red petticoat while the mob shouted "whore and murderess" after her. Yet at the same time she would be remembering that Mary had dared call herself Queen of England and that there were some Catholics in the country who would be ready to risk a good deal—including their lives—to see Mary on the throne, and a return to Catholicism.

No, Elizabeth would never forget that this foolish woman above the Border was a very great threat to that crown, which was so essentially hers and which she would not share even with the man she loved.

And Robert? What would he be thinking? This was the woman to whom he had been offered in marriage, who had referred to him slightingly as "The Queen's Horse Master." I was sure that his pride was such that he could not but enjoy a certain satisfaction to see her brought so low.

There was defeat, capture and imprisonment at Lochleven, escape from Lochleven and yet another disastrous and final defeat at Langside and—folly of follies—Mary was so deluded as to think she might receive help from "Her dear sister of England."

I could imagine that dear sister's excitement at the prospect of having her greatest rival deliver herself, of her own free will, into her hands.

Soon after Mary had arrived in England we had a visit from my father. His mood was one of mingling apprehension and pride, and when I heard the reason for his visit I could well understand his mood.