I sometimes believed, as I have mentioned before, that Oxford married Anne Cecil because he thought it would help to free his first cousin Norfolk, who was under sentence of death for his part in the Ridolfi plot, and when he did not succeed he was furious and vowed vengeance on Burghley.

Anne Cecil was giving birth while Oxford was abroad and out of revenge on Burghley, Oxford questioned his own paternity which was a great blow, not only to Anne, who was quite innocent, poor girl—but to my virtuous and strict-living Protestant Spirit.

Anne was heartbroken, Burghley was bewildered and he came to me at once to tell me the whole story. I tried to comfort him. Oxford was a wild and unpredictable young man, I told him.

When Oxford came back from his foreign travels, he presented himself to me. He had brought me some wonderful presents and these were all permeated with a delicious scent. There were elegant leather gloves which I found most acceptable and I said he must discover the name of the perfume, the like of which I had never smelt before, for I would have more of it. This he vowed to do and he was so charming in his manners that I could not believe he was really circulating lies about Burghley's daughter.

When I mentioned to him my displeasure in this he turned white with anger and told me that he would not take his wife back, nor would he own the child she had borne. I replied that to my knowledge Anne Cecil was a virtuous girl and I did not care for my good Burghley to be so disturbed as he was over this matter, and I insisted that Oxford should immediately reveal what evidence he had for making these accusations.

He replied that he would not blazon it forth until it pleased him to do so. As for the trouble the matter was causing Burghley, he preferred his own content to that of others.

I said: “I know that well.” And I tried to dismiss the matter from my mind.

I disliked trouble between those who were dear to me and although Oxford did not have the place in my affections that Burghley did, I was sorry that there should be this trouble.

Anne Cecil had gone back to her father and Burghley found a great deal of pleasure in his grandchild.

Anne did after a little while go back to Oxford, and there were three more children. I used to hear of them from Burghley who took the little ones into his household, Oxford having no talent for parenthood but Burghley being a family man. I liked to hear him tell me anecdotes of his grandchildren and at least some joy had come to him through his daughter's marriage to the unreliable Oxford.

The days were passing so quickly that I was scarcely aware of their going. Another week, another month, and there I was a year older. From the time I rose to the time I retired I did not seem to have a moment alone. My life was a round of ceremony. Even getting dressed I was surrounded by women, and there was the ordeal of lacing and getting into those whalebone busks which accentuated the smallness of my waist. There was the ruff to be chosen, and not even my wardrobe women could tell how many dresses I had. I must look magnificent before I faced my courtiers and only twice in the whole of my life as the Queen was I seen by a man before I was fully dressed. The first time was on a May morning at Hampton Court where I happened to be looking out of my window because it was such a beautiful morning. I was in my nightcap and loose gown and young Geoffrey Talbot, Shrewsbury's son, happened to be walking below my window and looked straight up at me.

I stepped back in embarrassment and immediately took up a hand mirror. I was forty-five and well preserved; courtiers swore they believed I had the secret of eternal youth and looked like a girl of eighteen; they lied of course but I do believe I looked ten years younger than I was. My skin was as white as it had ever been and as smooth—it should be. It was well looked after. My eyes had lost none of their brightness, and because I was a little short-sighted they had a soft look, although when I was talking to people I would study them so intently that I appeared to be looking straight into their minds, which disconcerted them a little. However I was not pleased to be seen by young Talbot who bowed low and hurried away. I did not feel I could allow the matter to pass and when I next saw him—it was before dinner of the same day—I gave him a fillip across the forehead and I told the company that he had seen me before I was fully dressed that morning and I was ashamed to have been so seen. Of course Talbot said that he had been so blinded by my beauty that I had disappeared before he had had time to recover himself. All the same, I was put out wondering what he had really thought.

The only other time was quite disastrous. But more of that later.

There was no lack of devotion from my courtiers in spite of the fact that I was fast moving out of the stage when I could expect compliments, but perhaps because of it they were more fulsome and more frequent than ever. I loved my men—and I think some of them had a genuine affection for me. I was sure Hatton and Heneage did; and as for Robert there was a special relationship between us which nothing could alter. Men like Oxford never cared for anyone but themselves; and such as Philip Sidney were too inherently honest to be able to play the part of an admirer. I respected Philip for it but while I liked to have him at the Court—in any case I owed it to his mother and he was a favorite of his Uncle Robert's—he could never be in my immediate circle. Hatton was my Old Mutton or Bellwether. He was also My Lids. Robert was of course My Eyes—the most precious thing I had, and I always said he was continually looking out for my good. Burghley was in a different category; he was My Spirit; and Francis Walsingham, because of his dark looks, was affectionately known as My Moor.

Lettice Knollys was back at Court. I liked to keep an eye on her. I commented that she must be mourning her husband and feeling his loss sadly.

“Oh yes, Your Majesty,” she said, lowering her eyes.

I thought: Sly creature! Is she up to some mischief, and with whom? Her attitude of mourning was not very sincere. She did not look like a sorrowing widow to me.

I said: “You must have been deeply saddened when you heard of Walter's death. It was so sudden…so unexpected. Poor Essex! He was not an old man, and he had so much to live for. I am glad it was discovered that his death was a natural one. That must have been a trying time for you. To lose a husband through God's will is disastrous enough, but if it should be by man's foul play that would be very hard to bear.”

“Walter was a quiet man, Your Majesty. He had no real enemies.”

“And not one to wish him out of the way?”

She lifted those beautiful dark eyes to my face with the utmost candor. “Oh no, Your Majesty.”

She was one of two women whom I found it hard to get out of my mind. The other was Mary, Queen of Scotland. I imagined, although I had never seen Mary, that she had a quality similar to that of Lettice. It was an overriding attraction which I think most men found irresistible. They are of a wanton nature, I thought angrily, both of them! They want men as much as men want them. It is not superior beauty or skill… except perhaps in lewd conduct. But it is there in Lettice Knollys as it must be in Mary of Scots.

And in view of the rumors which had reached me about Lettice and Robert, I was particularly suspicious of her. What was happening between Lettice and Robert would be kept from me by those around me and the fact that some hints had filtered through told me there must be a great deal of it.

New Year came—always an enjoyable time of giving and receiving. My courtiers, of course, brought me the richest gifts—jewelery and garments, but I also had more humble presents from my household servants. For instance from Mistress Twist, the Court laundress, I had three handkerchiefs of black Spanish work edged with gold—all worked by her; and in addition she brought me four tooth cloths of rough holland wrought with black silk and edged with fine netting delicately worked with many colored silks. From Mrs Montague, my silk woman, I had a pair of sleeves decorated with roses and buds in black silk.

Philip Sidney brought me a cambric smock decorated with black silk work and edged with bone lace of gold and silver; it was covered with real gold spangles—a most delightful and acceptable gift. From my physicians I had pots of ginger and other preserves, and one of the cooks made a marchpane in the shape of St George and the dragon.

I had given Robert a doublet of white satin fastened with clasps of diamonds in which he looked very splendid. My favorite gift was of course his, not only because it was the most magnificent but because he had given it. That year it was a magnificent necklace of diamonds, opals and rubies. I wore it constantly.

Lettice brought me two wigs—one black and one red to match my own hair.

When I tried on the black one she stood back looking at me, her hands clasped together, all prepared to make the flattering comment.

I said to her: “I hear disturbing news about Lady Sheffield. I wonder what is the cause of her ailment. Do you know?”

“No, Your Majesty.” The beautiful eyes were wide and her face a study of innocence. “I doubt not the doctors will have an answer.”

“It is one of those mysterious illnesses which affect some,” I went on. “They tell me that her hair is falling out and her nails dropping off.”

Lettice shivered.

“No one can say what the cause of that is. And you know how ready people are to talk when others are beset by these illnesses. They begin to look around for reasons.”