They buried him late at night in Paul's church and, as he had wished, without ceremony.

I shut myself away to mourn. I wished that I had done more for him when he was alive. I should have questioned him about his financial position. It seemed churlish to have allowed him to spend his fortune on the welfare of the state. But that was how he would have it. There could never be a greater patriot.

I would keep an eye on his daughter Frances.

She was a good quiet girl and I was fond of her for her own sake as well as her father's. I had thought her an excellent wife for Philip Sidney, for she was a beautiful, gentle girl, and I was pleased that he should marry her and put that odious Penelope Rich out of his mind.

Frances Walsingham had a daughter by Sidney—she must have been about seven years old at this time—a pleasant child to whom I had acted as godmother. And when Philip had been wounded in battle, Frances, again pregnant, had gone out to nurse him. Unfortunately he had died and she, poor soul, had lost the child she was carrying and come near to death herself.

Since then she had lived quietly with her mother and I thought I should bring her to Court and perhaps find a husband for her. I owed that to Walsingham since his widow and daughter had very little money.

Not long after Frances had come to Court I noticed something about her which aroused my interest. At first I could not believe it. She was such a virtuous girl, and nothing had been said of any suitor for her hand. I should have been the first to know if any had honorable intentions toward her. Surely Frances was not the sort to indulge in immoral relations outside marriage. It was unthinkable. What would my poor Moor have had to say to that!

I decided I would watch her. It might be that she suffered from some minor ailment. Poor girl, she had gone through a good deal after the birth of that stillborn baby, and had been very ill. Perhaps it was the result of all the tragedy that I was seeing now.

But there came a time when I believed my suspicions to be correct.

I called her to me and said: “Frances, does anything ail you?”

“No, Your Majesty,” she answered promptly.

I said: “Come here.”

She came wonderingly and I prodded her in the stomach.

“I have for some time wondered,” I said, “if you were carrying something which a virtuous widow would not be expected to.”

Frances was so taken aback that she flushed scarlet.

“So,” I cried, “I was right. You had better explain yourself, my lady.”

Frances held her head high and looked defiant.

I slapped her face. I was so angry with her. I had misjudged her. I had thought her a good, quiet, virtuous widow and when any of those about me indulged in furtive love affairs I always felt enraged. Perhaps it was because of my own virgin state. I was not sure. I certainly did not wish it to be otherwise… and yet there was this anger at the indulgence of others.

I said impatiently: “Come, come. Who is the man?”

Frances astonished me then, for she held her head even higher and said: “My husband.”

“Your husband!” Another of those secret marriages which I deplored! How dared they go behind my back and marry without my consent? If they wished to marry was I not the first to be told?

“Why was my permission not asked for this marriage?” I demanded.

Frances held her head still higher, her beautiful face showing a rare defiance as she replied: “I could not think that I was of sufficient importance to warrant informing Your Majesty.”

“Not of sufficient importance! Did I not love your father! Did he not enjoy my highest regard? Have I not always looked to you for his sake? Not of sufficient importance indeed!”

I slapped her again. She took a few paces back and as I saw the red mark on her cheek where I had struck her, my anger increased.

I took her by the arm and shook her.

“Your father married you in secret to Philip Sidney. I berated him strongly for such an act and he made like excuse. Not important enough to warrant my attention! Did you know that I scolded him and told him he showed scant gratitude to me to tell me I thought him of no importance. Have I not looked to you since he died? I would have found a suitable marriage for you. Tell me now who is this man who has got you with child? I will not have this philandering at my Court.”

She would not answer and I was beginning to feel uneasy.

I cried: “I grow impatient. His name! Come girl, do you want me to force you to talk?”

She fell to her knees and buried her face in my skirts. I was becoming quite sorry for her. She was really distressed, and the girl had had such a bad time with Sidney writing all those love poems to Penelope Rich while he was married to her, and then dying at Zutphen after her going out to nurse him and losing the child she was carrying. Yes, I was sorry for her. Perhaps she had been lonely. Well, I would make this knave marry her—if he were not already married—and the marriage should take place before the child was born.

“Are you going to tell me, Frances?” I said more gently.

She raised her agonized eyes to my face and nodded.

“Well?” I prompted.

She began to talk incoherently. “We met in the Netherlands…He was with the army…He was there with Philip…We have known each other well…We loved…We… married…”

“Who?” I demanded.

There was a pause of a second or two; then she said in a voice I could scarcely hear: “My lord Essex.”

“Essex!” I thundered.

She rose to her feet and took a few paces away from me, and without asking permission she turned and ran as fast as she could from my presence.

Essex! I thought. My Essex! And he had philandered with this girl, Walsingham's daughter! No, he had married her. He had dared to do that without telling me … without asking my permission. Oh, the traitor! The deceiver! All the time he had been showing me how much he adored me, he had been making love with this girl… even marrying her!

I shouted: “Send for Essex.”

He came sauntering in with that nonchalance which delighted me while it angered me.

He would have taken my hand and kissed it but I stood glowering at him.

“So, Master Husband,” I said, “you are here.”

Understanding dawned on him and what infuriated me was that he did not care. He knew that I had learned of his marriage and he was shrugging his shoulders. How different it had been with Leicester when I heard that he had married Lettice Knollys. He had made an excuse. I had refused him so many times, and he had been contrite and eager to make me understand that whoever came into his life, I was the first and always would be. With Essex there had been no suggestion of marriage with me. On the other hand he was my favorite young man and I had made it clear that I wanted to be aware of all the proposed marriages of my important courtiers.

He said rather carelessly: “So the news is out?”

“Your pregnant wife has told me.”

“Well it could not remain a secret forever, could it?”

“And why must it be a secret?” I asked.

“Because I feared Your Majesty's disapproval.”

“You were right to fear that.”

“I thought you were fond of Frances. You are a godmother to Sidney's child. Her father was one of your most able statesmen and you always showed great appreciation of his services.”

“To marry… without my consent…you!”

He replied coolly: “I adore Your Majesty. You are a divine being, apart from all others. I have loved you from my boyhood when I first saw you at Chartley. My great joy in life is to serve you…”

“And take steps behind my back?”

“I am a man who must live his own life and marry where he will.”

“If there is one thing I hate most in my subjects it is deceit.”

“No deceit was intended. Frances's father approved of the match.”

“I've no doubt he did. He wanted his daughter well provided for.”

“It seemed to us that his consent was enough.”

“You are insolent,” I cried. “You have enjoyed great favor at Court. I gave you that. I brought you to the position you now enjoy. You must not forget that I can cast you down as quickly as I brought you up.”

“That is true,” he said lightly, “and I must accept Your Majesty's decision as to my future.”

“Why do this in secret?”

“I know Your Majesty's uncertain temper and I had naturally no desire to arouse it.”

“You insolent dog!” I cried.

“That is not insolence, Your Majesty,” he replied with a slight smile, “just honest frankness for which you have so often commended me. If I had come to you and asked permission, you would have refused it. Then I should have had to disobey you. Now I have merely displeased you.”

I was so hurt, and angry with myself, for caring so much about this brash young man.

I said: “It is not the secrecy only which I find insupportable. I had plans for a grand marriage for you. I had been considering that… and now you go and tie yourself up with this girl…”

“Walsingham's daughter.”

“Penniless!”

“I do not set great store by riches.”

“Nor on royal favor either, it would seem. I believe you will be wanting to spend time with your wife… particularly in view of her condition. So, we shall not be seeing you at Court for some time, I gather.”

It was dismissal. Banishment.

He bowed low and with great dignity retreated.

I WAS IN A mood of dejection for days. Essex's absence from Court reminded me of the old days when Leicester had not been there. What was it about them? Was it a certain magic in their personalities which made life seem flat without them?