The Marriage Game (18 page)

Now she was not so blind. The events of the past months had opened her eyes. She knew that few princes had ever had such a counselor, and that William, her Spirit, was that rare being, one that put the needs of his royal mistress and his country before his own ambitions and desire for advancement. And yet she had almost cast him away.

There was no talk of retirement now. From the moment Amy’s death was announced, Cecil had been back where he was before, effortlessly in control of affairs. It was Robert whose star had been eclipsed, Robert who ended up cast into the wilderness—and Robert who returned a chastened man, his wings clipped.

What game had Cecil been playing? He had known that Amy Dudley was dying; Elizabeth herself had told him, several times, and kept him informed of the progress of Amy’s disease. And he himself had told her of rumors that Robert was plotting to kill his wife so he could marry the Queen. Had Cecil lied to Quadra, that inveterate gossip, so that when the end came the finger of suspicion would point at Robert, wrecking his chances of ever becoming king? It might even have destroyed him, although Cecil would surely have seen his own deception merely as a means of protecting the Queen from herself and ensuring the future security of her realm.

But there was something even more disturbing about what Cecil had told Quadra. The bishop had definitely repeated that “certain parties” were plotting to kill Amy. Surely Cecil had not meant to imply that she herself was involved? But what other accomplice would Robert have had? And if Cecil had wanted to protect her from the consequences of a marriage he deemed disastrous for her and her kingdom, why would he have as good as implicated her in the plot? No, she would not believe it of him. Quadra, that archintriguer, was stirring things up and putting his own construction on what Cecil had said.

But then, unbidden, came another thought that chilled her to the
very marrow. What if Cecil, seeing it as his sacred duty to protect his queen from making what he most certainly would have regarded as a disastrous mistake, made sure that Amy Dudley died before God claimed her, with the inevitable result that her husband was blamed for her murder? Was Cecil capable of such villainy? In truth, she would have thought not, for he had always been an upright and God-fearing man, but there remained a glimmer of uncertainty. In this case, would he not have been convinced that the end justified the means? Who knew what went on in that clever, complicated mind? And if he
had
done such a thing, it had all turned out as planned, and Robert’s chances of becoming King were adroitly scuppered.

Elizabeth chewed and agonized over the mystery as she lay abed that night. Would Cecil have dared? Robert was, after all, the Queen’s favorite, and therefore should have been untouchable. But Cecil was a man who went about things in subtle ways. Long ago another subtle politician, Thomas Cromwell, had brought down her mother.
He
had dared, and taken the most calculated risk, for her father—King Henry—had been a fearsome man, terrible to those who offended him.

The next day, she found herself looking at Cecil with new eyes, watching for signs that might betray his capacity for dark deeds or his guilt and complicity in Amy’s death. Should she confront him with what Quadra had told her? She fretted about it for days, not sure that she wanted her worst fears confirmed, for she shrank from facing the possibility that her most trusted minister was capable of murder. But in the end she could contain herself no longer.

“Stay a while, William,” she said as the councillors were preparing to depart. There was nothing unusual in such a request, and when they had left, Cecil sat down, waiting for her to open her mind to him, as she so often did.

“Bishop de Quadra said an odd thing,” Elizabeth began, and she repeated the conversation. Cecil’s face did not change. There was nothing in it that could be read as dismay or guilt. He seemed not the least bit perturbed.

“I fear the good bishop has given Your Majesty a somewhat garbled version of what I actually said,” he answered. “I was being sarcastic, for
one thing. And I was telling him of rumors that worried me. He has misconstrued it all. What on earth did you think I intended?”

“Forgive me, kind Spirit, I was merely puzzled,” Elizabeth assured him, feeling immense relief. “It seemed a strange thing for you to say. But you have resolved it now.” She smiled at him. “So you do think Lady Dudley’s death was accidental?”

“Indisputably, madam,” Cecil replied. There was no hint of dissimulation in his eyes or his voice.

1561
 

In the spring the court buzzed with fresh rumors about Robert Dudley. It was bruited that King Philip had promised to support his marriage to the Queen in return for England’s return to Rome. The result, predictably, was a fierce wave of anti-Catholic feeling. Again, Elizabeth suspected Cecil of fomenting a ploy to discredit Dudley, and this time, she told herself, she was probably right, for he knew that Robert had been intriguing with Bishop de Quadra to enlist Spanish backing in his campaign to win her hand.

Robert was so dismayed at the rumors and backbiting that he began to speak of going abroad to live.

“There is nothing for me here,” he said dejectedly.

“What of me?” Elizabeth demanded, hurt at his easy rejection of all that they were to each other. Was she not sufficient compensation for everything he was obliged to endure?

“You know I love you, Bess,” he answered, his hand on his heart. “But you keep me at arm’s length. It is a ceaseless cruelty to me, for you have no idea how much I want you.”

“Me, or my crown?” she challenged. It was, by now, an old joke between them.

“You,” Robert said, his dark Gypsy’s eyes glittering as he took her in his arms and closed his lips on hers, hungry, insistent. She gave herself
up to the moment, then, remembering what he had said, pulled away.

“But you are deserting me to go abroad.”

“You do not want me, Bess—not in the way I want you.”

“Give me a little more time,” she pleaded.

“I’ve heard that before,” Robert sighed. “Bess, I am thirty next year. It is an age at which a man should be married and raising sons to carry on his name. But I am little better than your lapdog, well groomed for your pleasure, always at your beck and call and offering unstinting devotion—but only when it pleases you. I want more than that. I want you as a man wants a woman. I want you as my wife.”

Elizabeth gently touched his cheek. “I would not hurt you for the world, sweet, bonny Robin. Be patient with me, just for a little longer.”

Robert grasped her hand. “How can I refuse you? But you know my life here is becoming unendurable. Cecil is out to ruin me.”

“I would never let him do that,” she assured him.

She knew what she would do. Robert had languished in the wilderness for too long. She would tip the scales once more. She would put an end to this alarming talk of going abroad.

When, soon afterward, the court moved to Greenwich Palace, Robert—to his delight and, it must be said, bewilderment—was assigned a sumptuous apartment next to the Queen’s. Gilded battens adorned the ceiling, and tapestries in the antique style covered the walls; the fireplace and overmantel were of carved stone studded with painted Tudor roses, and on the floor there lay a costly Turkey carpet. It was a lodging fit for a king!

“This is my reward for your patience,” Elizabeth told him, when she joined him there moments after his arrival; he realized that she must have been waiting to hear that he had come. His servants, unpacking his gear, fell to their knees at her appearance. “I hope you like it,” she said gaily.

“Madam, I am overwhelmed,” he replied, kneeling too, and kissing her hands.

“Do not kneel to me,” she commanded, raising him and dismissing his attendants. Then she drew him to the window, which overlooked the wide Thames. Below them there was a queue of barges waiting to unload a gaggle of well-dressed lords and ladies at the landing stage.

Elizabeth smiled. “Do you know what room this is, my Eyes?”

“No. I have not been in it before,” Robert said, lightly brushing back a tendril of hair that had escaped from her black velvet cap.

“It is the Virgins Chamber, and I was born here,” she told him. “These were my mother’s lodgings.”

“I fail to see why it is called the Virgins Chamber,” he said, and grinned, wishing to divert her from the sad subject of her mother.

“Look closer at the tapestries. They tell the story of St. Ursula and her eleven thousand virgins.”

“Is there a message I am supposed to be getting?” Robert asked. “Bess, you assign me these rich chambers next to your own; you say they are a reward for my patience. You raise all my hopes, then you talk of virgins!”

Elizabeth had to laugh. “I assure you it was not deliberate! Now Robin,” and suddenly she was all coyness, “I have gone so far, but I am a woman and will go no further. The rest is rather up to you.” She looked at him. Her eyes were impenetrable—as was the rest of her, he thought, irritated.

“Are you playing games with me again, Bess?” he demanded. “And if I ask to bed with you, will you deny me at the last moment?”

“I never deny you willingly,” Elizabeth answered, and he almost believed it. Oh, she was maddening, infuriating—but, great God, he wanted her!

He pulled her to him, enfolding her against his breast. She could feel his body stirring against her, and excitement rose in her too. He bent his face to kiss her.

“Sweet Robin,” she whispered against the roughness of his beard, “if I were a country maid, I would be yours. Nothing could please me more. But I am the Queen.”

“But you have just intimated that what happens next is down to me!” Robert complained. “I have asked you to bed with me. I have
asked you to marry me. You will not agree to either. What do you
want
from me, Bess?”

She felt him stiffen against her, and not with desire now. His whole body was taut with longing and fury. She knew what she was doing to him, and hated herself for it, but there was no remedy at hand. Except one.

“Come to me tonight,” she murmured impulsively, thinking that later could take care of itself. “There, I have said it. I was waiting for you to ask, but you harangued me instead.”

“Dear God, I don’t believe it,” Robert breathed, his mouth in her hair. “Do you really mean it this time, Bess?”

“Do you doubt me?” she countered, gazing up at him.

“Would that I did not. You have tied me in knots. I never know which way to take with you. I had hoped that was your meaning when you said things were up to me—but you are the mistress of ambiguity at times!”

“Once it is out that you have these rooms, people will talk,” Elizabeth said. “We may as well do something to deserve it!”

“And what will that something be?” he asked, relenting and kissing her.

“Now that would be telling!” Elizabeth giggled.

They lay abed, naked, in her chamber, the soft candlelight casting a golden haze on their skin. It was wonderful to feel Robin’s beloved flesh against hers. Ardently, their clothes discarded, he had swept her into his arms and tumbled her on the bed, covering her face with kisses; and she had twined herself around him. This time, after months of denying herself, she wanted him with her whole being; never before had she experienced such a sense of intimacy and freedom. She felt herself opening up like a flower, the need for completion urgent in her. She could do this, she knew it; she would not be afraid anymore. And the consequences be damned!

Robert slid his leg over hers, rough skin against smooth. He shifted closer, kissing her mouth, her eyes, and her neck, murmuring unintelligible words of desire, his hands caressing, roving where they would
all over her body. Excited beyond endurance, he mounted her and she felt him pressing against her, hard, urgent, insistent. In a moment, a little moment, he would breach all her defenses.

In a flash there came to mind the corpse-white dead faces of those who had loved and died for it: her mother, Katherine Howard, and Thomas Seymour, their necks all bloody, their headless bodies crumpled below them; Jane Seymour and Katherine Parr, faces twisted out of recognition with the pain of fatal childbirth; and Amy Dudley, who had known this very same flesh that was now assailing hers, lying broken and lifeless on the floor of Cumnor Place—Amy, whose lips were rotting in the rictus of decay, whose only caress now was from worms.

“No!” she cried, and with all her strength pushed Robert from her.

“Oh, aah, Bess, what are you doing?” he groaned, panting furiously as he slid away unsatisfied. “Never do that to me!” The words came out as a gasp.

“I could not help it,” she wailed. “I was frightened. I felt you against me, and I saw—oh, God help me, I saw death in all its horrible guises. Oh my Eyes, tell me I am not mad!”

“Not mad, but cruel,” he flung at her, struggling into a sitting position and reaching for his clothes.

“No, never, I could not be cruel to you. They came unbidden, those terrible faces with their dead eyes and all the blood …” She was weeping bitterly now.

Robert took a deep breath, then another. He laid a hand on her shoulder. Plainly this was no game.