The call of Rebellion went up, and in London and the neighborhood men were called on to defend the Queen and the country, and a force was quickly mustered against Essex. There was little fighting but enough for several to be killed. My Christopher was gored in the face by a halberd and fell from his horse so that he was left to be captured, while Essex retreated and managed to reach Essex House, where he quickly burned letters from the King of Scotland and any which he thought might implicate his friends.

It was night when they came to take him.

I was so angry. His friend Francis Bacon, whom he had helped so much, had spoken for the prosecution. When I thought of all Essex had done for Bacon I raved to Penelope and called him "False friend and traitor!"

Penelope shook her head. Bacon had been called upon to make a choice. He had to weigh up his obligations to the Queen and to Essex. Of course, said Penelope, he must choose the Queen.

"Essex would have chosen his friend," I pointed out.

"Yes, dear Mother," she replied, "but look to what his acts have brought him."

I knew my son was doomed.

Yet there was one bright hope to which I clung: The Queen had loved him, and I could remind myself how again and again she had forgiven Leicester. But Leicester had never raised an armed rebellion against her. What excuse could there be for Essex? I had to be reasonable and admit that there was none.

He was found guilty, as I had known he would be, and sentenced to death—and poor Christopher with him. I was bewildered and desolate, for I feared that I should shortly be deprived of a husband and a son.

It was a nightmare into which I had strayed. She could not do it. Surely she could not do it. But why not? Those about her would assure her that she must. Raleigh—always his enemy-Cecil, Lord Grey, all of them would explain to her that she had no alternative. Yet she was a woman of strong feelings. When she loved she loved deeply, and she had surely loved him. Next to Leicester he had been the most important man in her life.

What if Leicester had done what Essex had dared? But he never would have. Leicester was no fool. Poor Essex, his was a career littered with suicidal actions, and now there was nothing that could save him.

Or was there?

My husband and my son were condemned to death. I was her kinswoman. Would she have a little pity for me? If only she would see me.

I thought she might see Frances. She had always had an affection for her Moor, and this was his daughter. Moreover, Essex had been notoriously unfaithful to Frances, and the Queen would have pitied her for that, and that would surely have softened the hurt his marrying had inflicted.

Poor Frances, she was desolate. She had loved him dearly and had been with him near to the end of his freedom. I wondered whether he had been tender with her then. I hoped so.

"Frances," I advised her, "go to the Queen. Weep with her, and ask her if she will see me. Tell her I beg her to grant this favor to a woman who has been twice widowed and is likely to be so again. Beg her, in her mercy, to see me. Tell her I know that her great good heart is there beneath her stern royalty, and tell her that if she will see me now I will bless her throughout my life."

Frances was granted an audience during which the Queen had commiserated with her and told her it was a sad day for her when she had lost a great man in Sidney and married a traitor.

And, to my surprise, I too was granted an audience.

So, once again, I was in her presence. But this time on my knees to plead for my son's life. She was dressed in black—for Essex, I wondered—but her gown was covered in pearls; she held her head high above the ornate ruff and her face looked very pale against the too red curls of her wig.

She gave me her hand to kiss and then she said: "Lettice!" And we looked at each other. I tried to compose my features, but I could feel the tears coming into my eyes.

"God's breath!" she said. "What a fool your son is!"

I bowed my head.

"And he has brought himself to this," she went on. "I never wished it for him."

"Madam, he would never have harmed you."

"Doubtless he would have left that for his friends to do."

"Nay, nay, he loves you."

She shook her head. "He saw through me the way to advancement. Do not all of them?"

She signed for me to get off my knees and I rose saying: "You are a great Queen, Your Majesty, and all the world knows it."

She looked at me steadily and said grudgingly: "You still have some beauty left. You were very handsome when you were young."

"No one could compete with you."

Strangely enough I meant it. She had something more than beauty, and she still retained it, old as she was.

"A crown is becoming, Cousin."

"But it does not suit all who wear it. Madam, it becomes you well."

"You have come to ask me to spare them," she said. "I was of a mind not to see you. You and I have nothing to say to each other."

"I thought we might offer each other comfort."

She looked haughty, and I said boldly: "Madam, he is my son."

"And you love him dearly?"

I nodded.

"I did not think you capable of loving anyone but yourself."

"Sometimes I have believed that to be so, but now I know it is untrue. I love my son."

"Then you must prepare yourself—as I must—to suffer his loss."

"Is there nothing that can save him?"

She shook her head.

"You plead for your son," she went on. "Not your husband."

"I plead for them both, Madam."

"You do not love this young man."

"We have lived pleasantly together."

"I heard that you preferred him to ..."

"There are always evil rumors, Madam.

"I never believed you could prefer any other," she said slowly. "If he were here today ..." She moved her head impatiently. "Life was never the same after he went..."

I thought of Leicester dead. I thought of my son who was condemned to die, and I forgot everything but the need to save him.

I threw myself to my knees again. I felt the tears running down my face, and there was nothing I could do to stop them.

"You cannot let him die," I cried. "You cannot."

She turned away from me. "It has gone too far," she murmured.

"You could save him. Oh, Madam, forget all the enmity between us. It is over and done with ... and have either of us long to live?"

She flinched. As always she hated people to refer to her age. I should have known better. My grief had robbed me of my good sense.

"However much you hated me in the past," I went on, "I beg of you now to forget that. He is dead ... our beloved Leicester ... gone forever. Were he here with us today, he would be kneeling here with me."

"Be silent," she shouted. "How dare you come here ... you She-Wolf! You ensnared him with your wanton ways. You took the finest man that ever lived. You lured him into deceit ... and now this rebel son of yours deserves well the ax. And you ... you of all women ... dare come here and ask me to spare a traitor."

"If you let him die, you will never forget it," I said, all caution deserting me in this desperate need to save my son.

She was silent for a while, and I saw that the shrewd tawny eyes were glistening. She was moved. She loved him. Or once she had loved him.

I kissed her hand fervently but she withdrew it—not sharply, though, almost tenderly.

"You will save him," I pleaded.

But the Queen was replacing the emotional woman whom 1 had briefly glimpsed.

She said slowly: "I have seen you, Lettice, for Leicester's sake. He would have wished it. But even if he knelt before me now and asked this of me, I could not grant it. Nothing can save your son ... nor your husband ... now. They have gone too far. I could not, if I would, stay their execution now. There is a time when one must go forward. There is no looking back. Essex has walked into this with his eyes open and a determination to destroy himself. I must perforce sign his death warrant, and you and I must say goodbye forever to this foolish boy."

I shook my head. I think I was mad with grief. I knelt and kissed the hem of her robe. She stood looking down at me, and as I lifted my eyes to her face I saw a certain compassion there. Then she said: "Rise. I am tired. Goodbye, Cousin. Methinks it is a strange matter this mad dance of our lives—mine, yours, and these two men we loved. Yes, we have loved two men, dearly. The one is lost to us; the other soon will be. There is no turning back. What is to be will be."

How old she looked with the marks of real grief on her face.

I was about to plead once more, but she shook her head and turned away.

I was dismissed. There was nothing to do but leave her and return in my barge to Leicester House.

I would not let myself believe that she would not relent. I told myself that when it came to signing his death warrant she would not be able to do it. I had seen it in her face that she loved him. Not as she had loved Leicester, of course, but still she loved him. My hopes were high.

But she signed the death warrant, and I was in despair. Then she recalled it. How happy I was—but, oh, how briefly so, for she changed her mind, urged no doubt by her ministers.

Once more she signed the warrant, and this time she did not withdraw.

On Wednesday, the twenty-fifth of February, my son, dressed in black, came out of his prison in the Tower and was taken to the high court above Caesar's Tower.