“He must be twenty… twenty-one…”

“Ready for marriage, and Madam Penelope is fourteen … but a ripe fourteen, would you say?”

“I know little of that.”

I gave him a tap on the hand. “Now, Robert, all know that you are wise in these matters.”

“My attentions are so centered on one that I see little of others.”

It was the remark I wanted to hear, but while I listened and was gratified, my suspicions remained.

“I am very sorry for Lady Essex,” I said maliciously. “She must be a very lonely woman.”

“She appears to be happy in her family.”

“But the head of that family is missing. A woman such as Lady Essex needs to have a man beside her. Devereux is in Ireland. Perhaps he should be brought back or she join him there.”

“There are her children.”

“Children… and without a husband! If he stayed in Ireland that can be a problem. But if he were brought back…He does not appear to be making much of a success in Ireland. I have a fancy that Devereux is a man who would never make a success of anything … saving marriage, of course. Would you say he had made a success of that?”

Robert was clearly uneasy. He must be wondering if I had been listening to gossip.

However, he did seem quite indifferent to Lady Essex and devoted himself to the children. Robert was the sort of man they adored. It was that essential masculinity, that aura of power, that magnificence. His confident way with horses was endearing, for what child does not love horses? I found him once in the stables with young Robert Devereux, talking of horses, showing him tricks, giving him instructions in the art of manége which he himself had mastered from the French. He was telling young Robert how, after the massacre of St Bartholomew's Eve, he had tried to fill his stables with grooms from households where the owners had been massacred.

“But,” he was saying, “these gentlemen have so high an opinion of themselves and demanded such fees for their services that I decided I could do better… and I could instruct my own Englishmen to do as good a job as they did.”

“Of course you could,” agreed young Robert. “Philip says you can do everything better than anyone else.”

“Philip is a loyal nephew.”

“And the French are wicked. Philip was there when the killing started. He told us about it. He was in the Ambassador's house and he heard the bells ringing and saw the people running into the streets. He said that night was a blot on the history of France which will never be forgotten. He said we must always respect the religious views of others.”

“Philip is a good and noble gentleman,” said my Robert with feeling.

They were then aware of me and the elder Robert came swiftly to my side and kissed my hand while the young one looked on.

“When I am grown up,” he said, “perhaps I shall be your Master of Horse.”

Little did I know then what an important part that boy would play in my life. I shall always remember him as the bright young boy he was during my stay at Chartley. I think I began to love him from that moment, which was surprising considering whose son he was.

But in that moment he was merely young Robert Devereux, one of the most enchanting children I had ever met.

I HAD TO ADMIT that the Countess of Essex had entertained us very graciously at Chartley. It was particularly laudable considering that she had the whole burden of the visit. There had been pleasant festivities in the great hall in the evenings, good hunting during the day; and the food was adequate, the ale of the desired quality, and above all the place sweet-smelling. The Countess had given instructions that the rushes be swept out every day. So many people failed to do that and I imagined their noses had become so accustomed to evil smells that they did not notice them. Dorothy Devereux told me that her mother had ordered that wormwood seed be mingled with the rushes for fleas could not live in wormwood.

“My mother knows full well that Your Majesty is the cleanest lady in the land, and she was determined that no flea should sup your royal blood at Chartley.”

That amused me. They were bright, these Devereux children. They took after their mother, I supposed—and certainly not after Walter. Walter was a fool. There was no gainsaying it. It was a mistake to have sent him to Ireland. Cecil had said there was no hope of succeeding in Ireland. It was like trying to fill a bottomless pit. However much was poured into it, it would disappear. The reason was that the Irish were a people given to quarreling, so that if they were met on any point that would simply raise another. It was the quarrel itself which they sought—not the solution; so if one trouble was solved they lost no time in finding another.

I was beginning to believe that Cecil was right and governing Ireland was a thankless task; that was why it was best to send such as Devereux out there. The place abounded with traitors and dull as he was, Devereux could be trusted. He had, however, made some terrible mistakes. He had invited some of the chieftains to a banquet on one occasion and in the middle of the feast soldiers had entered the hall, seized the chiefs and murdered their attendants. There was no justification for this and Devereux's excuse had been that he had broken the faction which was working against him and made them all afraid of him.

There was no alternative after that incident but to recall him from Ireland.

He came to see me, full of excuses. I gave him credit for his loyalty; on the other hand he was no brilliant statesman. I was certain that Lettice must find him dull company.

Let her contend with his dullness. She had married him and he was the father of those four enchanting children.

I said to him: “There has been no happy result from the Irish question, but I daresay that is no easy matter to settle. You need a rest. I'll swear you are longing to be with your beautiful wife and children. I was at Chartley recently and I found the place delightful. Make sure there are no black cows born on your land, Lord Essex.”

He was gratified by my interest and I could not help comparing him with Robert who was present at the meeting. How splendid he looked in that dark red velvet, a color becoming to his handsome dark looks! I liked the new Italian-style doublet with the long peak in front. It was set with rubies, and there was a white feather in his red velvet hat, and his loose traveling coat was of the same rich-colored material. What a fine figure of a man! And how insignificant Walter Devereux looked beside him!

Walter thanked me and said he would be glad to return to his family for a while, until I found some task for him which he trusted would be ere long as his one wish was to serve me.

I laughed to think of Lettice receiving him. I was sure she would be somewhat nonplussed. There were a great many rumors about her and a love affair she was having with a certain nobleman. Nobody mentioned the name of the nobleman in my presence, so I knew it was Robert.

I shrugged my shoulders. As long as he and Madame Lettice realized that he could be with her only when I did not wish him to be with me, I would accept what was going on. In fact I would enjoy showing Lettice that Robert was only at her service if I did not need him.

I became more and more certain of this when one of Robert's men brought up the suggestion that Essex should be sent back to Ireland.

I was amused. Get him out of the way again, I supposed. Leave the coast clear for Lettice and Robert.

Cecil, however, thought it might be a good idea for Essex to go back. He was loyal; he was not very bright, of course, but if he were given clear instructions he would not be a man to go against them.

As a result it was decided that Essex should indeed return with increased authority and to stress this he was given the title of Earl Marshal of Ireland.

He left in July. That was a year after our visit to Kenilworth. By September he was dead. He had died of a virulent attack of dysentery.

I felt a quivering of alarm. Dysentery was a disease suffered by many, which often proved fatal. Whenever it occurred there were suggestions of poisoning. Thus the sudden death of a man of thirty-five, who had been in excellent health when he left England, coupled with the recent scandals about his wife, gave rise to fresh rumors.

It was reported that a black cow had been born on the Chartley estate. Whether it was true or not I did not know; but there was a great deal of speculation.

Henry Sidney came to me and said that in view of the suddenness of Essex's death there should be an autopsy. I agreed but I must say I was terrified of what might be found and whom it might involve. Robert had been on the perimeter of too many mysteries: Amy Robsart, Lord Sheffield and now Walter Devereux.

I heard that Walter had died bravely, although he had suffered intense pain. He had written to me in his extreme agony and begged me to favor his eldest son. He also wrote along the same lines to Cecil.

I was very relieved when the post-mortem revealed that there was no trace of poison in him. I wished that I could stop thinking that there were some poisons which left no trace, and that Robert's own physician, Dr Julio, was an Italian who had a masterly knowledge as to the effects certain concoctions could have on the body.

However, the case was closed. Walter Devereux was dead and that little boy, Robert, who had made such an impression on me at Chartley, had become the Earl of Essex. 

The Clandestine Marriage

MY POOR BURGHLEY RAN INTO A LITTLE FAMILY TROUBLE at this time. He had been rather flattered, I think, when Edward de Vere had married his daughter. It had seemed such a grand match. But Edward de Vere was a young man of very uncertain temperament and that he had too high an opinion of himself I had always known. He had been a favorite of mine—not the highest rank, but quite near it, for he was very handsome and such a good dancer; and he amused me. I had been delighted for him to marry Burghley's daughter, for I never ceased to be grateful and to appreciate the worth of my dear Spirit.