Robert told me that Sir Francis Walsingham wanted to marry his daughter to Philip. He thought it was an excellent idea, for it was time Philip married. He was still writing poems extolling Penelope's beauty and his hopeless passion for her, but as Robert pointed out to me—and I agreed with him in this—Philip was not a passionate man who needed physical fulfillment. He was a poet, a lover of the arts, and to him a love affair conducted in verses would be more satisfactory and romantic than one which came to a natural conclusion. Penelope naturally enjoyed being adored in verse, but at the same time she was living with Lord Rich, and although it could not be said to be a happy marriage, at least she was bearing him children.

So the families thought that a union between Frances Walsingham and Philip was a good thing. Frances was a beautiful girl, and if Philip was temporarily lukewarm, they were sure he would change when he married.

Rather to my surprise Philip allowed the arrangements to go on and settlements were drawn up.

When Dorothy had heard of Robert's suggestion that she should marry James of Scotland, she had been a little upset. She told me that nothing on earth would have induced her to, even if the Queen had agreed to it.

"I believe him to be a most unpleasant person," she said. "Dirty and overbearing. Your husband is a little too ambitious, my lady."

"There is no need to upset yourself," I retorted. "The marriage will certainly not take place. The Queen would have you, me, and your stepfather in the Tower if we got as far as that!"

She laughed. "She hates you, my lady. I understand why."

"So do I," I answered.

She looked at me with admiration. "You never grow old," she told me.

I was delighted, for to hear such words from a young and critical daughter was praise indeed.

"I suppose it's because you live excitingly."

"Is my life so exciting?" I pondered.

"Of course it is. You married my father and then you took Robert and he was supposed to be married to Douglass Sheffield, and now the Queen hates you and you just snap your fingers and ride out looking as royal as she does."

"Nobody could do that."

"Well, you look more beautiful anyway."

"Not many would agree with you."

"Everyone would agree with me ... though they might not admit it. I intend to live as you do. I shall snap my fingers at fate, and if your husband brings the King of France or Spain to marry me, I shall answer him by eloping with the man of my choice."

"As both these kings are married, and if they were not would certainly not marry you, that is a situation we need not worry about."

She kissed me and said life was exciting and how marvelous it must be to be Penelope—married to an ogre with the most beautiful young man at Court writing love odes to her, which everyone read and said were works of art and which would immortalize her. "I believe that the way to enjoy life is to make it merry."

"There may be something in that," I agreed.

I should have been warned, I suppose. Dorothy was seventeen and romantic, but I still thought of her as a child. Moreover, I was so immersed in my own affairs that it never occurred to me to look into those of my daughter.

When Sir Henry Cock and his wife invited her to spend a few weeks with them at Broxbourne it seemed a good idea for her to go, and she went off in high spirits.

Soon after she had left, Robert came to Leicester House from Greenwich, and it was clear from his demeanor that something unpleasant had happened. The Queen was in a rage. She had discovered that Philip Sidney was betrothed to Frances Walsingham and her permission had not been asked. She was very annoyed with all parties concerned, and as Philip was Robert's nephew, and Robert was known to take a great interest in family affairs, it occurred to the Queen that he had deliberately withheld the knowledge from her.

Robert had explained that he thought the matter not important enough to worry her with.

"Not important enough!" she had screamed. "Have I not shown favor to that young man! It is only this year that I made him a knight, and he sees fit to betroth himself to Walsingham's girl and say nothing to me!"

Walsingham had arrived, humbly enough, and when the Queen's rage had subsided he was allowed to explain that he also did not think his family of sufficient importance to warrant her interest.

"Of insufficient importance!" cried the Queen. "You should know that all my subjects are of importance to me, you, my Moor, as well as any." The very nickname used was a reproach, for, with her passion for nicknames, she had called him her Moor on account of his dark brows. "You know full well that I am concerned for your family, and you sought to deceive me. I feel it in me to refuse permission for these two to marry."

She showed her displeasure for a few days before she relented and finally gave way, called the young couple to her, gave them her blessing and promised to be a godmother to their first child.

About this time one of Robert's most dangerous enemies died. This was Thomas Radcliffe, the Earl of Sussex. He had been ailing for a long time, which, to Robert's gratification, had meant his long absences from Court. Sussex had served the Queen wholeheartedly, he always claimed, and would let nothing—even her displeasure—stand in the way of his devotion. He had never recovered from the exposure he had endured during the Northern rebellion when he had helped put down her enemies. He was well aware of Robert's ambition and, I believe, genuinely disturbed as to where it would lead him and the Queen. He and Robert had almost come to blows one day in the Queen's presence and called each other traitors to Her Majesty. She hated to see those she loved at war with each other; she was always afraid that some harm would be done to them; so she had ordered that they be removed by the guards and stay in their chambers until their tempers cooled.

Yet it was Sussex who had warned her not to send Robert to the Tower when our marriage had been disclosed to her. In her rage she would have done so, but Sussex had realized the harm such an action would have done to her. As Robert had said, Sussex would have been delighted to see him a prisoner in the Tower, so it seemed there was some truth in the Duke's claim that his first endeavor was to do what was best for the Queen.

Now he was on his deathbed, and Elizabeth went to see him at his home in Bermondsey, where she sat by his bed and was very tender to him; she wept at his passing, for she felt deeply the loss of those men she had bound deeply to her.

He was greatly concerned, he said, because he believed there was much he could still do for her. She told him to rest in peace. None could have served her better and she wanted him to know that when she had been sharp with him she had lost none of her affection for him because she had always known, even when he irked her most, that it was for her good.

He said: "Madam, I fear to leave you."

At which she laughed and said he had a great conceit of himself, and so had she of herself, which was why she believed she could deal with any who worked against her. She knew that he was warning her against Robert, whose ambition, he had often said, would stop at nothing.

There were several at Sussex's deathbed to report what his last words to those present had been: "I am now passing into another world," he had said, "and must leave you to your fortunes and the Queen's graces. But beware of the gypsy for he will be too hard for you all. You do not know the beast as I do."

Of course he was referring to Robert.

Elizabeth mourned Sussex and declared again and again that she had lost a good servant; but she did not heed the warning about "the gypsy."

One day Sir Henry Cock came to Leicester House in a state of great concern. I was immediately anxious, for I guessed that something had happened to my daughter.

I was right. It seemed that Thomas Perrot, the son of Sir John Perrot, was also at Broxbourne, and he and my daughter had formed a romantic attachment. The vicar of Broxbourne had come to Sir Henry with an unusual story. He said that two strange men came to him and asked for the keys of his church. Naturally he refused to give them; they went away and after a while he grew uneasy and went to the church to see if all was well. He found that the church door had been forced open and that a marriage was in progress. One of the two men who had previously asked him for the keys was acting as a minister. The vicar then told them that they could not perform a marriage ceremony in his church, as he alone was entitled to do that. One of the men, whom he realized later was Thomas Perrot, then asked him to marry him. This the vicar refused to do and the strange man proceeded with the ceremony.

"The fact was," said Sir Henry, "the young lady in question was her daughter, the Lady Dorothy Devereux, and she is now the wife of Thomas Perrot."

I was dumbfounded, but as this was the sort of adventure I should have indulged in myself I could scarcely blame my daughter. It must be that she was in love with Perrot and determined to marry him, so I thanked Sir Henry and said that if the marriage were a true one—and it would be of the utmost importance to make sure that it was—then there was nothing we could do about it.

When Robert heard what had happened, he was at first annoyed. Dorothy had seemed to him a good bargaining counter. Who knew what other glittering prizes he might have drawn out of his imagination for her? The fact that James of Scotland was not possible would not deter him; and now she had removed herself by marrying Perrot.