But it was not so—and, being determined to punish me, she took a malicious delight in keeping him from my side. For what? For being preferred by him! She was anxious to show me—and the world—that he would desert me any day for her. And he did.

On his brief visits we made passionate love, but I wondered if he realized that even our old ardor was changing for me. I wondered if Elizabeth noticed the change in him. A man who had lived as Robert had could not expect to escape unscathed. He had lived too richly, indulged himself too freely in what people call the good things of life, and the result was periodic visits to Buxton, where he took the waters and lived on simpler fare and hoped his gout would subside. Being so tall, he was still an impressive figure, and the aura, which had made him stand out like a prince in a crowd, remained. He was a man who created his own destiny. The legends which were attached to him would always make people speak his name with awe. He remained the most discussed man in the country, a role he thoroughly enjoyed and sought. The Queen's devotion to him, which had lasted for nearly a lifetime, would never be forgotten. But he was an aging figure now, and when I saw him after absences I was always a little shocked by his appearance.

I took great care of myself, determined to appear young as long as I could. Being denied the Court, I had time to experiment with herbs and lotions which kept my skin beautiful. I bathed in milk; I made special washes for my hair which helped to keep its shining color. I used paint and powder with a skill unrivaled by the Queen's women, and so I preserved a youthful look which denied my years. I thought of Elizabeth—older than I—and I took a distinct pleasure in studying myself in my mirror and examining my complexion, which appeared—aided by those adjuncts to beauty which I could apply with such skill—as fresh as a young girl's.

Robert always declared himself astonished when he saw me after being away for some time. "You have not changed since the day I first saw you," he said. An exaggeration but a welcome one; yet I did know that I had preserved a certain flowerlike freshness, which gave me a look of innocence so ill matched by my nature that it may have been this contrast which set me apart and was the secret of my appeal to men. In any case I was kept aware of my attractions on which Robert never failed to comment. He often compared our Vixen with his Lamb—to the detriment of the former course and this he did to put me in a good mood. He did not want the time we spent together wasted in recriminations. He desperately hoped that we should have another child; but I was not eager for that. I would never really get over the loss of my little Robert, which may sound false in a woman of my nature, but is nevertheless true. That I was selfish, I knew, sensual, looking for admiration, seeking pleasure. ... I recognized all this. I had learned too that I was not overscrupulous in the manner in which I reached my desires—but in spite of this I was a good mother. I take pride in that even now. All my children loved me. To Penelope and Dorothy I was like a sister, and they confided their matrimonial secrets to me. Not that Dorothy had trials at this time; she was blissfully happy in her runaway match. It was different with Penelope. She told me in detail of the sadistic habits of Lord Rich, the husband she had never wanted, of his taunts because of Philip Sidney's passion for her, and of the lurid life of their bedchamber. Such was her nature—so similar to mine —that she was not entirely cast down by all this. Life was exciting to her: the long battles with her husband; the sublime devotion of Philip Sidney (I often wondered what his wife, Frances, thought of that); and the constant looking forward to what adventures the day would bring. So I had my girls.

As for my boys, I saw Robert, the Earl of Essex, now and then. I insisted because I could not endure the separation. He was living in his house at Llanfydd in Pembrokeshire, which I protested was too far away. He had grown into a very handsome young man. His temper was a little uncertain and, I had to admit, that there was a definite waywardness, an arrogance in his nature; but the mother in me quickly protested that this was overshadowed by his perfect manners and an innate courtesy which was very appealing. He was tall and slender, and I adored him.

I urged him to join the family but he shook his head and a stubborn look I well knew came into his eyes.

"Nay, dearest Mother," he said, "I was not meant to be a courtier."

"You look like one, my darling."

"Appearances often lie. Your husband would want me to go to Court, I believe, and I am happy in the country. You should come to me, Mother. We two were not meant to be apart. Your husband is, I hear, often in close attendance on the Queen, so he perhaps would not miss you."

I noticed the contemptuous curve of his lips. He was one who had great difficulty in concealing his feelings. He was not pleased by my marriage. I sometimes thought he resented Leicester because he knew how much I cared for him, and he wanted all my affection bestowed on him. And of course hearing how Leicester neglected me for the Queen would make him angry too. I knew my son.

Young Walter idealized his brother Robert and spent as much time as he could in his company. Walter was a dear boy—a pale shadow of Essex, I always thought. I loved him, but the feeling I had for any of my children could not approach the intensity of that I felt for Essex.

But those were happy days when I could gather my family around me and we could sit at the fireside and talk together. They recompensed me in many ways for the loss of my life at Court and the company of my husband who was often there.

Being content with the children I had, I did not want the inconvenience of bearing more. I reckoned I was too old for that. Childbirth would be an ordeal for me now and I had had my share of it.

I did remember how eager I had once been to have a child by Robert. Fate had given us our little angel, our "Noble Impe"; but with him had come great anxiety and sorrow. I should never forget his death and those nights I had spent at his bedside after one of his fits. And now he was gone, but while I mourned his loss deeply, a great anxiety was lifted from me. There was compensation in knowing that my little darling was suffering no more. Sometimes I would ask myself whether his death had been a punishment for my sins. I wondered whether Leicester felt the same.

No, I did not want more children and this might be a sign that I was falling out of love with Robert.

When I was at Leicester House, where I liked best to be because of its closeness to the Court—so near and yet so far for those excluded from it—I saw more of Robert because it was easier for him to slip away for brief periods. But we could not be together for more than a few days before the Queen's messenger would arrive to demand his return to Court.

On one occasion he came to me rather preoccupied. After his protestations of eternal fidelity to me and that consummation of our passion which I fancied he tried to endow with the eagerness we had both known when we had snatched our secret meetings, I realized what had brought him this day.

It was a man named Walter Raleigh who was causing him some disquiet.

I had heard of him, of course. His name was on everyone's lips.

Penelope had met him and said he was undoubtedly handsome and possessed of great charm; the Queen had quickly brought him into her intimate circle. He had leaped into prominence, the story went, one wet day when the Queen was returning to the palace on foot and had paused before a muddy stretch of ground over which she had to cross. Raleigh had taken off his elaborate plush cloak and spread it over the dirty ground that she might walk on it. I could picture the scene: the graceful gesture, the expensive cloak, the glitter in those tawny eyes as she noticed the handsome looks of the young man; the speculation in those of the adventurer who no doubt counted the cost of an elaborate cloak well lost for the sake of rich benefits to come.

It had not been long after that incident that Raleigh was at the Queen's side, delighting her with his wit, his compliments, his adoration, and his accounts of past adventures. She had grown very fond of him and had knighted him that very year.

Penelope told me that at one of the palaces—Greenwich, I think—when he was in the company of the Queen, he had tested her affection for him by scratching on a windowpane with a diamond the words:


                                           Fain would I climb

                                          Yet fear I to fall.

as though asking her to assure him that he would have nothing to fear by trying to rise in her favor.

Characteristically she took the diamond from him and beneath his couplet scratched the words:

                                          If thy heart fails thee

                                         Climb not at all.

which was in a way stressing the fact that her favors must be sought at all times and that no one should believe he would be favored without merit.

Robert had believed, after he had been taken back into favor, that his position was secure. So it was, I was certain; whatever he did she would never forget the bond between them. At the same time he was anxious that no young man should rise too high in her favor, and it appeared that this was exactly what Raleigh was doing. It was galling to Robert to see a younger man constantly beside the Queen; ever present was the fear that someone younger would replace him in her favor. She knew this, of course, and loved to tease him. I was sure that she showed Raleigh more favor when Robert was near than she ever did in his absence.