Of course there had been the murky scandal of Amy Robsart's death and the scars of that would remain with him throughout his life. Had he murdered her? Who could say? She had certainly seemed to stand between him and ambition, and he greatly desired a marriage which had been impossible while she lived. There were too many dark secrets in Cumnor Place; and there was no doubt that the incident of Amy's death had given the envious the ammunition they needed.

Dr. Julio, Robert's physician, being an Italian, was becoming known as Leicester's poisoner, so it was small wonder that it had been said at the time of the Earl of Sheffield's death that Robert had had him removed. But why, when he had no wish to marry his widow? Except, of course, that Sheffield was at the time threatening divorce—having discovered that Douglass had committed adultery with Robert. That would have created a scandal which Robert would want to avoid at all costs, for if it came to the Queen's ears he would be in great trouble.

That Robert was of a dark and devious nature mattered not to me. I wanted a man who could challenge me. I wanted no mild, ineffectual creature like my husband. I was heartily tired of Walter, and I was as deeply enamored of Robert Dudley as any woman could be. That was why when I saw him talking earnestly to Douglass Sheffield, I was filled with uneasiness.

It was a Sunday. The Queen had attended church in the morning, and as the weather was warm and pleasant, it was decided that some players from Coventry should do Hock Tide, a play about Danes, for her entertainment.

I was mildly amused to see these rustics in their improvised costumes and their local accents portraying men of whom they could have had no conception. The Queen was delighted with them; she enjoyed being among the simple country folk, and to bring home to them the fact that, glittering and glorious as she was, she had a great respect and love for them. Again and again on our progress we must stop by the road if any humble person approached her; and she never failed to have a kind word or reassurance to offer. There must have been many people in the country who would cherish an encounter with her throughout their lives and serve her with the utmost loyalty because she had never been too proud to speak to them.

So now she gave as close an attention to the Coventry players as she would have done to any of the Court actors, and sat in her chair laughing when laughter was expected and applauding only when applause was looked for.

The play was about the coming of the Danes, their insolence, violence and the outrages they inflicted on the English countryside. The chief character was Hunna, King Ethelred's general, and of course the play ended in the defeat of the Danes. As a tribute to her sex, the captive Danes were led onto the stage by women, at which the Queen loudly applauded.

When it was over, she insisted that the players be presented to her that she might tell them how much she had enjoyed their play.

"Good men of Coventry," she said, "you have given me much pleasure and shall be rewarded. Yesterday's hunting brought us several good bucks and I shall order that you be given two of the finest, and in addition you shall have five marks in money."

The good men of Coventry fell on their knees and declared they would never forget the day they had had the honor of playing before the Queen. They were loyal men, and after this day there would not be one of them who would not willingly give his life for her.

She thanked them and, watching her, I noticed how she preserved that rare and royal gift in that she could lose none of her dignity and yet at the same time be completely at ease with them and make them so with her. She could lift them up without descending from her royalty. I was aware of her greatness as never before; that we should be rivals for the same man filled me with an intense excitement and the fact that he was ready to risk so much for the fulfillment of his passion for me was an indication of its depth.

This emotion between us was something which must not be denied. We were bold adventurers, both of us, and I could be sure that the danger was as irresistible to him as it was to me.

It was that very day that I found an opportunity of speaking to Douglass Sheffield.

The play being over and still some hours left before twilight, the Queen, riding side by side with Robert and followed by certain of the ladies and gentlemen, had left for the forest, when I saw Douglass Sheffield walking alone in the gardens and I went to her.

I came up with her near the lake as if by chance and called a greeting.

"It is Lady Essex, is it not?" she asked, and I answered that it was, and that I believed she was Lady Sheffield.

"We should know each other," I went on, "there is a family connection through the Howard family." She was one of the Effingham Howards and it was my great-grandmother, wife of Sir Thomas Boleyn, who was of the family.

"So we are distant cousins," I added.

I studied her intently. I could understand what Robert had found attractive. She had the quality which many of the Howard women had. My grandmother Mary Boleyn and Catherine Howard must have been somewhat similar. Anne Boleyn had something more—this immense physical attractiveness plus a calculating streak which made her ambitious. Anne had miscalculated—of course she had had a very fickle man to deal with—and she had ended up headless, but with a little dexterous handling of her affairs and aided by the birth of a son, it need not have happened as it did.

Douglass then was the soft and yielding type, sensuous and making no demands in return for what she gave. Her sort immediately attracted the opposite sex, but very often it was not durable.

I said: "The Queen grows more and more enamored of my Lord Leicester."

Her mouth drooped and she looked rather sad. I thought: There is something, then.

"Do you think she will marry him?" I went on.

"No," said Douglass vehemently. "He cannot do that."

"I cannot see why. He wants it and at times it seems she is as eager as he is."

"But he could not do it."

I began to feel uneasy. "Why not, Lady Sheffield?"

"Because ..." She hesitated. "No, I must not say. It would be dangerous. He would never forgive me."

"You mean the Earl of Leicester would not?"

She looked perplexed and tears came into her eyes.

"Is there anything I can do?" I asked soothingly.

"Oh no, no. I must go in. I don't know what I'm saying. I have been unwell. I have my duties, so ..."

"I thought you looked sad of late," I said, determined to detain her. "I sensed there was something and that I must speak to you. There is a bond between those whose blood is linked, I believe."

She looked a little startled and said: "It may be so."

"Sometimes it is helpful to talk to a sympathetic listener."

"I don't really want to discuss anything. There is nothing to be said. I shouldn't have come. I should be with my son."

"You have a son?"

She nodded.

"I have four children, Penelope, Dorothy, Robert and Walter. I miss them very much."

"So you have a Robert too?"

I was alert. "That is your son's name?"

She nodded.

"Well," I went on, "it's a good name. That of our Queen's husband ... if she ever decided to marry."

"She could not," said Douglass, falling into the trap.

"You seem vehement."

"It is when you talk of their marrying ..."

"It is what he is hoping for. Everybody knows it."

"If she had wanted to marry him she would have done so long ago."

"After the mysterious death of his wife," I whispered. "How could she?"

She shivered. "I often think about Amy Dudley. I have nightmares about her. Sometimes I dream I am in that house and that someone creeps into my room ..."

"You dream that you are his wife ... and he wants to be rid of you. How strange!"

"No ..."

"I believe you are afraid of something."

"How men change," she said wistfully. "They are so ardent and then it is someone else who claims their attention."

"And their ardor," I said lightly.

"It can be ... rather frightening."

"It would be with a man like the Earl... after what happened at Cumnor Place. But how do we know what happened there. It's a dark secret. Tell me about your little boy. How old is he?"

"He is two years old."

I was silent, calculating. When had the Earl of Sheffield died? Was it not in '71 that I had heard how the Howard sisters were pursuing Robert? It was in that year—or perhaps the next—that Lord Sheffield had died and yet in the year '75 Douglass Sheffield had a two-year-old son called Robert.

I was determined to discover what this meant.

I could scarcely expect her to pour out her secrets on this occasion even though there was a relationship between us. I had learned far more than I could have hoped from the rather foolish woman. But I would make a determined effort to discover the truth.

I tried to be sympathetic and friendly when she said she was suffering from a headache. I took her back to her apartment and gave her a soothing potion. Then I made her lie down and told her I would let her know if the Queen returned.

Later that day she told me that she had been feeling very unwell when we had met in the gardens and she was afraid she had talked a lot of nonsense. I reassured her and said we had merely had a friendly chat and how pleasant it was to meet a cousin. My potion had done her so much good and she wondered if I would give her the recipe. Of course I would, I told her. I understood perfectly these feelings of depression. After all, I had children of my own and longed to be with them.