I did point out to him that she might be incensed when she heard that he had married, since she appeared to have lost none of her affection for him. But Robert was so pleased because he was back in favor that he refused to be depressed.

How we laughed over the adventure now that the danger was past! But the problem of disclosure lay ahead of us. One day she would have to know.

Robert was still at Wanstead when we heard that there had been an accident at Greenwich which could have cost the Queen her life.

It appeared that Simier was conducting her to her barge when one of the guards fired a shot. The Queen's bargeman, who was standing only six feet from her, was wounded in both arms and fell bleeding to the ground.

The man who had fired was seized immediately and the Queen turned her attention to the bargeman who lay at her feet.

When she had satisfied herself that he was not fatally wounded, she took off her scarf and bade those who were attending him to bind him up and stop the flow of blood, while she bent over him and begged him to be of good cheer, for he and his family should never want. The bullet had been meant for her, she was sure.

The man who had fired the shot—a certain Thomas Appletree —was dragged away, and the Queen went on to her barge, talking as she did so to Monsieur de Simier.

The incident was discussed throughout the country; and when Thomas Appletree was put on trial he declared that he had had no intention of shooting and that the firearm had gone off by accident.

The Queen, gracious as she always liked to be to her humble subjects, saw the man himself, and declared herself convinced of his honesty and that he was speaking the truth. He fell to his knees and told her with tears in his eyes that he had only ever had one wish and that was to serve her.

"I believe him," she cried. "It was an accident. I shall tell your master, my good Thomas, to take you back into his service."

Then she declared that the man who had been shot was to be well looked after and, as it turned out that he had not been badly hurt, the incident appeared to have been forgotten.

But this was not so. Many knew that the Earl of Leicester had quarreled with the Queen over the granting of the passport to the Duc d'Anjou. Simier complained that Leicester had done his best to make the mission a failure; and in view of Robert's reputation it was soon being hinted that he had arranged for the guard to shoot Simier.

Simier himself believed this and he was determined to have his revenge. We discovered in what manner when the Earl of Sussex came riding to Wanstead.

Thomas Radcliffe, third Earl of Sussex, was not a great friend of Robert's. In fact there was a fierce rivalry between them, and Robert was well aware that Sussex deplored the favors which the Queen had lavished on her favorite. Sussex was ambitious like the rest of those men who circulated about the Queen, but it was his boast that his only motive was to serve her and this he would do even if by so acting he offended her. He had little imagination or charm and was certainly not one of Elizabeth's favorite men, but she kept him for his honesty much as she kept Burleigh for his wisdom; and although she would berate them and vent her anger on them, she would always listen to them and often took their advice; she would never have dispensed with either of them.

Sussex was looking stern, I noticed, and not without a certain self-satisfaction, for the news he brought was that Simier, infuriated by what he believed to be an attack on his life by Leicester, had told the Queen what so many people already knew although it had been kept from her, that Robert and I were married.

Robert asked me to join them, for there was no purpose now in keeping my presence a secret.

"You are in deep trouble, Leicester," said Sussex. "You may well look dismayed. I have never seen the Queen in such a fury."

"What said she?" asked Robert quietly.

"At first she would not believe it. She screamed out that it was lies. She kept saying 'Robert would never do it. He would never dare.' Then she called you a traitor and said you had betrayed her."

Robert protested: "She has spurned me. She is at this time contemplating marriage. Why should my marriage be of such moment to her?"

"She would not listen to reason. She kept saying that she would send you to the Tower. She said you could rot in the Tower and she would be glad of it."

"She is ill," said Robert. "Only a sick woman could behave so. Why, she offered me to the Queen of Scots and was willing for me to marry the Princess Cecilia."

"My Lord Leicester, it is said that she would never have allowed those marriages to take place and if she had they would have been political marriages. It was when she heard whom you had married that her fury increased." He turned to me apologetically. "I will not, Madam, insult your ears by telling you the names the Queen called you. Indeed, it would seem her fury is more violent against you than against the Earl."

I could believe it. She would know of the passion between us. I had not been mistaken when I had seen her watching me so closely. She knew that there was a power in me to attract men, which for all her glory she lacked. She would picture Robert and me together and she would know that what we shared was something which, by her very nature, she could never enjoy. And she hated me for it.

"No, never before have I seen the Queen in such a passion," went on Sussex. "Indeed, I felt she was on the verge of madness. She kept declaring she would make you regret your actions—both of you. You, Leicester, she really wanted to send to the Tower. It was with the greatest difficulty that I restrained her from giving the order."

"Then I have to thank you, Sussex, for that."

Sussex gave Robert a look of dislike. "I saw at once that the Queen would harm herself by giving such an order. She would be allowing her emotions to override her good sense. I pointed out to her that it was no criminal act to enter into honorable marriage, and that if she showed her subjects how deeply enraged she was, they might put all manner of constructions on her conduct which would be detrimental to her. So, in due course, she relented, but she made it clear that she did not want to see you and that you should stay out of her way. You are to go to the Tower Mireflore in Greenwich Park and stay there. She has not said that you shall be guarded, but you are to consider yourself a prisoner."

"And I am to accompany my husband?" I asked.

"No, Madam, he is to go alone."

"And the Queen gave no orders for me?"

"She said she never wished to see you again, nor to hear your name spoken. And I must tell you, Madam, that when your name is mentioned she flies into such a passion that were you there she would be ready to send you straight to the block."

So the worst had happened. And we now had to face the consequences.

Robert lost no time in obeying the Queen's order and going to Mireflore. I went to my family at Durham House.

It was clear that we were all in disgrace, although after a few days the Queen relented somewhat and sent word to Robert that he could leave Mireflore and return to Wanstead, where I joined him.

Lady Mary Sidney came to visit us on her way to Penshurst. She felt it necessary to leave Court, for the Queen was so vituperative against her brother Robert, and particularly against me, that she found it distressing; and when she mentioned to the Queen that she was sure the Dudley family no longer enjoyed her favor and asked leave to retire to the country, this was granted. Elizabeth had said that she had been so badly treated by the very member of that family on whom she had lavished great favor, that it would be easier if she were not reminded of him. She would never forget what Lady Mary had done for her, but she was ready to allow her to retire to Penshurst for a while.

We would sit quietly with Lady Mary and talk of the future. I was pregnant and so longed for a son that I could let this storm pass over me. I was well aware that I should never again be welcome at Court and that the Queen was my enemy for life, for whatever she did—even if she married the Duc d'Anjou, which secretly I knew she never would—she would not forget that I had taken the man she loved, and would never forgive me for having made him so much in love with me that he had risked his future by marrying me. In spite of her self-deception over her charms, she knew very well that had it been a choice between two women, I would have been the chosen one. That knowledge would always be between us and she would hate me for it.

But I had married Robert; I was to bear his child; and just now I could snap my fingers at the Queen.

Lady Mary thought that this would be the end of the family's favor at Court, and it seemed very likely that the Queen would marry the Duc d'Anjou out of pique.

I did not agree with this. I knew her well, and I think that this rivalry between us had given me a rather special understanding of her. In so many superficial ways she was a hysterical, illogical woman, but beneath this she was as strong as steel. I did not think she would ever commit an act which did not seem to her politically wise. It was true she had given the passport which would bring Anjou to England. But the people were against an alliance with the French; the only reason for marriage could be to get an heir, and her age made that very uncertain; moreover, she would make herself ridiculous if she married this young boy. Yet, because she wanted the fun of courtship, because she wanted to create the illusion that she was nubile, and perhaps, too, because she was deeply hurt that Robert had married me she would continue with this farce.