Виктория Холт - My Enemy the Queen

The July heat was oppressive and as I sat by his bedside I thought about my love for his father—of which he was the fruit— and how important Robert had once been to me, dominating my life. I had thought then that the affection between us would last forever and even now I knew that I should never be quite free of it. If we could have lived together without the shadow of the Queen over us, I believe ours might have been the greatest love story of our times. Alas, though, she was there. There was a trio where there should have been two. The Queen and Robert were larger than life, I always thought; and perhaps I, too, had a little of that quality. Not one of the three of us would set aside our pride or ambition, our self-love, or whatever it was. If I could have been the meek, adoring wife which Douglass Sheffield might have been, it would have been easier. I could have been content to remain in the shadows and allow my husband to wait upon the Queen, to give her the adulation she demanded and accept this as necessary to his career.

I could never do that; and I knew that sooner or later I would make that clear.

And now our child was in danger and I felt that when he died—as I feared he would—the link which bound me to Robert Dudley would have grown a little weaker.

When I sent a messenger to Court to tell Robert of the condition of our son, his response was immediate.

As I greeted him in the hall I could not resist saying: "So you came. She spared you."

"I should have come had she not," he answered. "But she is most concerned. How is the boy?"

"Sadly sick, I fear."

Together we went to our child.

He lay in his bed looking small and wan in all that magnificence which I had made for him. We knelt by his bed and Robert held one hand and I the other and we assured him that we should stay with him as long as he wanted us.

That made him smile and the pressure of those hot little fingers on my hand filled me with such emotion as I could scarcely bear.

He died peacefully while we looked on and then our grief was so intense that we could only cling together and mingle our tears. We were not the ambitious Leicesters at that time—only two unhappy, bereaved parents.

We buried him in the Beauchamp Chapel at Warwick and we had a statue made of him lying on his tomb in a long gown; the description described him as the "Noble Impe" and stated who he was and the date of his death at Wanstead.

The Queen sent for Robert and declared that she was determined to comfort him. She wept for the dear lost child and said that Robert's sorrow was hers. Her sympathy, however, did not extend to the child's mother. Not a word did she send me. I was still the outcast.

That was a year of disaster, for it was not long after the death of my child that a most scurrilous pamphlet appeared.

I found this in my bedchamber at Leicester House so someone must have put it there intentionally for me to see. It was the first I heard of it but in a short time the whole Court, the whole country were to be talking of it.

The target was Leicester. How he was hated! There could never have been a man who aroused such envy. He was now once more high in the Queen's favor and it seemed that none could ever displace him. Her affection for him was as steadfast as her hold on the crown. Robert must have been the richest man in the country; he spent lavishly and was often embarrassed for money, but that only meant that he had temporarily spent more than he could afford. He was at the Queen's side when she made important decisions, and some said, he was King in all but name.

So they envied him and their hatred was venomous.

I looked at the small book which was entitled The Copye of a Letter wryten by a Master of Arte at Cambridge.

On the first page my husband's name caught my eyes.

"You know the Bear's love which is all for his paunch. ..." I read, and I was soon in no doubt that the Bear was Robert.

There followed an account of his relationship with the Queen. I wondered what she would say if she ever saw it. And then ... his crimes. Naturally Amy Robsart's death was one of the highlights. According to the pamphlet, Robert had acquired a certain Sir Richard Verney to murder her and made the way clear for the Queen and him to marry.

Douglass Sheffield's husband was mentioned as having been poisoned by Leicester and was said to have died of an artificial catarrh which stopped his breath. I knew what was coming next, for I could not hope to escape the libel. There it was. Leicester had taken me in lust while my husband lived and when I was with child we destroyed the child and afterwards he had my husband murdered.

It seemed that any person who had died mysteriously had been poisoned by him. Even the Cardinal de Chatillon was alleged to have been a victim because he threatened to make it known that Leicester had prevented the marriage of Elizabeth with Anjou.

Robert's Dr. Julio was mentioned as the man whose expert knowledge of poisons had aided Leicester in his wicked work.

I was astonished. I read on and on. So much in this book could be true, but it defeated its end by the absurd exaggerations and accusations. On the other hand it was a blow at Leicester, and the manner in which his name had been coupled with that of the Queen would create a very unpleasant situation.

Within a few days the pamphlet, which had been printed in Antwerp, was circulated throughout London and the country. Everyone was talking about what they were calling Leicester's Commonwealth.

Philip Sidney came riding over to Leicester House. He was furious and declared that he was going to write a reply in defense of his uncle. The Queen made an order of the Council that the book —which she declared to her knowledge was entirely false—should be suppressed; but that was not an easy thing to bring about. People were ready to risk a good deal to get their hands on Leicester's Commonwealth. It was more interesting, though, than Philip's beautifully written piece in which he asked the man who had written this scurrilous pamphlet to come forth, but he knew him to be a base and wretched tongue that dared not speak his own name. He added that on his father's side he belonged to a great and noble family, but his chief honor was to be a Dudley.

It was no use. Leicester's Commonwealth flourished; and all the evil stories, which in the past had been hinted and whispered, were now set down in print—and more calumnies added.

There could be no doubt that as that tragic year passed Robert was the most talked of man in England.

The circulation of Leicester's Commonwealth could not fail to have its effect, even on me. I began to wonder how much of it was true and to look at my husband through fresh eyes. It was indeed a strange coincidence that the people who had stood in his way had been removed at remarkably convenient moments. He was, of course, rarely on the scene of the crime, but then he had his spies and servants everywhere. I had always known that.

I was overcome by uneasiness. How much did I know of my husband? If there was even some truth in what I was reading, I had to admit my position must be a precarious one. What if the Queen after all decided she might marry him, what would he do? Would he find the prospect irresistible? Should I be found at the bottom of a staircase with a broken neck? It seemed a logical outcome.

I considered us all—the three who formed this unholy trio. We were all complicated people, and none of us overscrupulous. Both Robert and Elizabeth had lived dangerously all their lives. Elizabeth's mother and Robert's father had both died violent deaths on the scaffold, and they themselves had come within a few paces of a similar fate. As for myself, I had been required by the Queen to live more in the shadows; but I was married to a man who, according to Leicester's Commonwealth, wielded the poison cup and other lethal weapons without compunction. The mystery of Amy Robsart would never be cleared; all that was known was that she died at a time when her death could have brought Robert's elevation to the side of the Queen. I thought of Douglass Sheffield, who had at one time become an embarrassment to him. Her nails had started to disintegrate and her hair to fall out. She had not died, but had apparently come near to it. What did we know of the dangers through which she had passed? At least she was now the most contented of wives, for Edward Stafford adored her.

I was growing more and more dissatisfied. It seemed to me that the Queen would never relent towards me. If she had denied her presence to Robert, I should have been somewhat reconciled. He was rich, and even if he had had no more favors from the Queen, we could have lived in great style at Kenilworth, Wanstead, Cornbury, Leicester House—or one of his manors—and I should have been romantically regarded as the woman for whom he considered the Queen's favor well lost.