The Queen and Sir William Cecil had sent for him and told him that they had a mission for him.

" 'It is a sign of my trust and faith in you, Cousin,'" he proudly told me the Queen had said to him; and he went on: "I am to be guardian of the Queen of Scots. I am going up to Carlisle Castle, where Lord Scrope will join me in this task."

Walter said it was one he would not welcome.

"Why not?" I demanded. "The Queen would only entrust it to one in whom she had complete trust."

"That's so," agreed Walter, "but it will be a dangerous task. Where Mary of Scotland is there is trouble."

"Not now she is in England," said my father, rather naively, I thought.

"But she will be your prisoner and you her jailer," Walter pointed out. "Just suppose that..."

He did not finish, but we knew what he meant. If ever Mary rallied enough forces to her banner and fought for the throne of England and won it, what of those who, on the instructions of her rival, had acted as her jailers? Moreover, what if she escaped? Walter was thinking that he would not care to be the one who might be held responsible for that calamity.

Oh yes, it was a considerable responsibility that my father had taken on.

But merely to mention the possibility of Elizabeth's being replaced was treason. All the same we couldn't help the thought being in our minds.

"We shall guard her carefully," said my father, "yet at the same time not let her know that she is a prisoner."

"You set yourself an impossible task, Father," I told him.

"I think that perhaps it is God's will," was his answer. "It may be that I have been selected to turn her thoughts from Catholicism, which I believe to be the root of all her troubles."

My father was a very innocent man, which may well have been due to his simple faith. With the passing of the years his devotion to Protestantism had increased, and it was bringing him to the belief that all those not of his faith were doomed to damnation.

I did not challenge him on this. He was a good man and I was fond of him, as I was of my mother; and I did not wish them to know how different was my outlook from theirs. I often wondered what they would have thought had they known of my brief liaison with Robert Dudley. That they would have been deeply shocked I was well aware.

My father had with him some clothes which he was taking from Elizabeth to Mary. I said I should like to see them and, rather to my surprise, my father allowed me to. I had expected some queenly garments—puffed and slashed and decorated with gems, lace ruffs, silken undergowns, linen petticoats and of course jeweled and embroidered overgowns. All I found were some shoes, very well worn, a piece of black velvet to be made into a dress and some undergarments which were clearly not new.

And this was the gift of the Queen of England to Mary, who was noted throughout France and Scotland for her elegance! Such garments would be scorned by her maids.

I was sorry for Mary, and once again I felt the urge to be at the center of events, to know firsthand and not rely on visitors who came riding to Chartley and would tell us what had happened weeks after it had taken place. I was not of a nature to enjoy standing aside and merely looking on.

Soon after my son Walter was born, two events took place.

The Queen of Scots had been moved from Carlisle Castle to that of Bolton. My father was a little fascinated by her, as most men were who came into contact with her; but in my father's case the effect of this was to make him want to save her soul rather than enjoy her body; and I heard that he was attempting to convert her to our faith. She had by this time realized how foolish she had been to put her trust in Elizabeth and walk straight into her enemy's camp. It was true she might have done no better if she had gone to France, but who could be sure of that? She had not exactly endeared herself to Catherine de' Medici, the Queen Mother, and there was a woman as wily as our own Elizabeth and certainly more lethal. Poor Mary—there she was with three countries to chose from: Scotland, from which she had fled; France, where she might have had a fair reception from her Guise relations—and England, which she chose.

She had made an attempt to escape by the romantic but often not very practical method of sliding down the walls by means of knotted sheets, and had been caught by Lord Scrope, and naturally after that her jailers had been obliged to increase security. Lady Scrope, who was with her husband, was the sister of the Duke of Norfolk, and she it was who talked so glowingly of the attractions of her brother to the Queen of Scots that Mary became interested in Norfolk, and thus the foolish man was drawn into a web of intrigue which was to result in his downfall.

In due course there came the rebellion of the Northern Lords and my husband was called to his duty. He joined the Earl of Warwick's forces and became Marshal of the Field.

My mother had been ill for some time, and she wrote telling us of the Queen's great sympathy for her. "No one could have been kinder than Her Majesty," wrote my mother. "How lucky we are in our sovereign lady."

It was true that Elizabeth was loyal to her friends. She had given poor Lady Mary Sidney an apartment in Hampton Court, where she came sometimes to stay in retirement because she hated to show her pockmarked face; and Elizabeth visited her regularly and would sit for a long time chatting with her. She made it clear that she did not forget that Lady Sidney had acquired her scars while nursing her.

Then I received a message.

I was to return to Court.

My excitement was intense. Why had I ever thought my simple country pleasures would compensate me for the excitement of the Court? And when I say "Court" I mean of course those two who were so often in my thoughts. The very prospect of returning set my nerves tingling.

I could scarcely wait to get there.

I went straight to the Queen, who had given orders that I should be brought to her. I was unprepared for her greeting. As I would have knelt she took me in her arms and kissed me. I was astonished but I soon learned the reason.

"I am stricken with grief, Lettice," she said. "Your mother is very ill indeed." The large eyes were glazed a little. "I greatly fear ..." She shook her head. "You must go to her at once."

I had hated her. She had deprived me of what I most wanted in life. But in that moment I almost loved her. Perhaps it was because of that capacity in her for friendship and loyalty to those whom she loved. And she loved my mother.

"Tell her," she said, "that she is in my thoughts. Tell her that, Lettice."

She put her arm through mine and walked with me to the door. It was as though she had forgiven me for anything of which she might have suspected me because she shared my grief.

With my brothers and sisters I was at my mother's bedside when she died. I knelt by her bed and gave her the Queen's message. I knew by the expression which flitted across her face that she had understood.

"Serve God ... and the Queen," she murmured. "Oh, my children, remember ..."

And that was all.

Elizabeth was certainly deeply moved. She insisted that my mother be buried at her expense in St. Edmund's Chapel. She sent for me and told me how deeply she had loved her cousin and that her loss would be sincerely felt. She meant it, I know, and she was tender to us all ... temporarily. I believe at this time she even forgave me for catching Robert's eye.

After the funeral she called me to her and talked about my parents—how she had loved my mother, how she esteemed my father.

"There was a family bond between your mother and me," she said, "and she was a good and gentle soul. I hope you will follow her example."

I told her wistfully that I missed serving her and she answered: "Ah, but you have compensations. How many is it now ... four?"

"Yes, Madam, two girls and two boys."

"You are fortunate."

"I count myself so, Madam."

"That is well. There was a time when I thought you had a roving eye."

"Madam!"

She gave me a slap on the arm. "It seemed so. I esteem Walter Devereux. He is a man who deserves nothing but good."

"He will be overwhelmed with joy to hear that he has Your Majesty's good opinion."

"A lucky man. He has his heir. What have you called him?"

"Robert, Madam."

She looked at me sharply. Then she said: "A good name. A favorite of mine."

"Of mine now, Your Majesty."   

"I shall reward your husband for his services to us. Lord Warwick has spoken of him most warmly, and I have decided one way in which I will show my appreciation."

"May I be allowed to ask what that is, Your Majesty?"

"Certainly. I am sending his wife back to Chartley, so that when he returns to his home he will find her there."

"He is at this moment busily engaged in the North."

" 'Tis so. But we have got the better of these rebels, and should he return I would not have him disappointed and missing his wife."

It was dismissal. The friendliness she had felt in our mutual grief was over. I was not to be forgiven for Robert's brief interest in me.

My children were growing up. Penelope was nearly ten and Robert five. The domestic life, however, could never satisfy me. I was certainly not in love with my husband and felt little excitement during his visits. I was growing more and more restive because life was so dull. I was fond of my children—and in particular young Robert—but a child of five could not compensate a woman of my nature and provide the stimulus she needs.