The Marriage Game (19 page)

He felt helpless. He had no idea how to help this woman who was sobbing so heart-wrenchingly beside him on the bed. This woman whom he wanted so fiercely, for so many reasons. Love, he knew, was only a part of it, albeit a substantial one. But there was in him a driving need to confound his enemies, to show them that there was more to him than a queen’s pretty boy, and to emerge ascendant over them. The crown was now surely within his reach. He had been patient long enough, trusting that everything came to those who waited. Yet there remained just this one obstacle to be overcome, and he was suddenly no longer so sure that he could conquer it. Like a shoot creeping out
from a seed in the soil, it began to dawn on him that he might never do so, and that Elizabeth’s fears were so deep-rooted that no man would ever vanquish them.

He had never doubted that she would marry him in the end. There was between them that which could not be replaced by anyone else, however advantageous the match. But now, for the first time since Amy’s death, he began to wonder if his future might lie elsewhere, especially if he wanted to breed heirs of his body, for it was dawning on him that he might never get them from Elizabeth. And if he could not sire princes, then at least he wanted sons to carry on his name and inherit his wealth. But how, loving Elizabeth as he did, was he ever going to do that? He knew how jealous she could be. Were he even to flirt with another lady, he would risk his power, his property, and everything he held dear.

Feeling overwhelmed by it all, he let his hand fall from her shoulder. Elizabeth gave no sign that she noticed, but she had, she had. She could not stem the tide of her tears; they kept rising as if from a bottomless well. She was racked with pain and guilt. It was bad enough that she herself had to bear these fears, but far worse that another, one so beloved, should suffer because of them. She did not think she could feel any more wretched than she did at this moment.

Making a tremendous effort, she fought to regain mastery of herself.

“I am so sorry, Robin,” she whispered, lying there looking very forlorn.

He took her hand. “What
can
I do to help you?” he asked.

“I wish I knew!” she blurted, and the tears welled again.

“Have you consulted your physicians?” he ventured.

“No!”

“You need to talk to someone. I am always here to listen, Bess, but I am no doctor.”

She clasped both his hands. “Ah, Robin, you are more of a remedy for me than any physician could prescribe. If anyone can help me, it is you. Be patient with me. I will conquer myself, never fear. I just need time. And I could not bear it if you held tonight against me!”

He took her in his arms at that. “Never, never,” he soothed, trying not to betray his concern. “I will wait forever, while there is hope that you will be mine one day.”

“I am yours already,” Elizabeth said. “And may yet be more to you. I do wish it.”

He crushed her tightly to him at that, hope welling again in his heart.

Robert sought out Bishop de Quadra. He had a deal to propose, and a bargain that he had no intention of keeping. It was not to his liking, but he was ready to do whatever was needful—anything at all—to marry Elizabeth.

“My Lord Bishop, you are known for a wise man,” he said, hoping that flattery would smooth his path.

The bishop eyed him warily. “If I can be of service to your lordship …” he murmured.

“Certainly you can, if you would do your best to persuade King Philip to support my suit to the Queen. I am sure you both appreciate the advantages it will bring.”

“Indeed—but to whom?” Quadra smiled.

“To our two kingdoms,” Robert said, reining in the urge to shake the man.

“And how, may I ask, would this marriage you propose benefit my master?”

“It would win him, its broker, the undying friendship of England, and of your servant here,” Robert declared. “Tell him also that I fear I have been in error in regard to religion. I have even considered converting to the Catholic faith.”

The gleam in the bishop’s eye was unmistakable, but calculating too. The man was clearly asking himself if Robert was sincere—or if his possible conversion was just a means to an end.

“I will tell King Philip what you have said,” Quadra said at length.

Later, alone in his chamber, Robert felt disgusted at how low he had stooped. How could he even be seen thinking of forsaking the faith he held dear? That was not the right way to go about things. It went
against his Protestant soul to inveigle favors from the Catholics. Moreover, the ploy was too transparent, and the bishop had surely guessed his game.

Then it came to him—like a revelation—that he must show the world he was a personage of moral fiber with deeply held convictions. Some that had heard him speak and looked into his heart knew it already, but there were not enough of them. He must be seen by all as a man of gravity, indeed, the most steadfast champion of the Anglican religion. To Quadra’s bewilderment, he abandoned their cozy chats and went about staunchly proclaiming his devotion to the reformed faith. None could deny that this in particular, and his many other accomplishments, eminently qualified him to be King; he doubted that any prince in Europe was so befitted.

His tactics worked. It was not long before he noticed, slowly but surely, a change in people’s attitudes toward him. Cautiously, as if he was a snake who might bite or a sorcerer who might bewitch them with his magic, they were becoming more courteous, less dismissive of his opinions, and beginning to treat him at last as a man of gravitas. Elizabeth noticed this too, and was much gratified by it. Cecil noticed it, and was alarmed. God forbid that a Dudley should ever ascend to the throne!

But that summer many believed it would not be long before that happened.

On a warm June night Elizabeth, bravely attired in a beautiful gown of cloth of silver, boarded her state barge to watch a pageant on the Thames. Robert was close behind her as she stepped nimbly along the narrow deck between the livery-clad oarsmen to the larger of the two cabins, which was sumptuously appointed with gilded paintwork, rich velvet cushions, curtains of cloth of gold, and a crimson velvet rug strewn with petals, which gave off a heady scent. The curtains were tied back, and through the expensively glazed window Elizabeth espied Bishop de Quadra among the press of courtiers crowding the landing stage, awaiting their own barges. It was chaos out there, and if they were not careful someone would end up in the river.

“My lord!” she called. “Pray join us!”

Robert scowled. “You do not need to flirt with the Catholics,” he muttered, but the bishop, a delighted smile on his broad face, was now boarding the barge and there was no more time for grumbling. Lady Katherine Gray came, whey-faced as ever, with a platter of seed cakes and goblets of wine, and Quadra was made welcome as Elizabeth invited him to be seated with her and Robert on the opulent cushions. Now the barge was pulling away to the center of the Thames in the torchlight, and myriad other craft came gliding to form a flotilla around the royal barge, each boat with its own gaudy display, put on for the delight of the Queen and the crowds that lined the banks. There were dragons and unicorns, nymphs and gods, knights and damsels, all accompanied by music, verses, and fireworks. It was a magical scene, and Elizabeth reveled in it. She sat happily between Robert and Quadra, gaily pointing out the sights, devouring the cakes and clapping her hands. When the bishop ventured to talk about politics, she hushed him with a raised finger and a wink, and went on swapping witticisms and jokes with Robert.

For all that he was a churchman sworn to celibacy, Quadra could see that this was a couple very happy in each other’s company. If you could forget that they were two heretics, and that Lord Robert had very likely murdered his wife, they were perfect for each other. Mellow and expansive with good wine, cake, and the undeniable honor of being invited to share this special evening with the Queen and her favorite, he felt moved to make an observation. “Your Majesty seems very happy tonight,” he said, looking first at her and then at Lord Robert.

Elizabeth smiled. “It is because I am,” she said.

“So the rumors are true, that you will marry Lord Robert here?”

“That would be telling!” Elizabeth laughed. “But we do speak of it, do we not, Robin?”

Robert knew that she was enjoying teasing Quadra—and him too. “If you like, madam,” he said, playing along, “the worthy bishop here could marry us.”

The Queen giggled. “I am not sure he knows enough English!”

Quadra’s good mood evaporated. He disliked this banter about what was, after all, a weighty, nay, a sacred matter. Matrimony was a holy estate and a sacrament of the Church, and not to be spoken of lightly. But all was falsehood and vanity with this woman. She had a hundred thousand devils in her body, and he did not pretend to understand her.

“Madam,” he said, a touch stiffly, “if Your Majesty were to extricate yourself from the tyranny of Sir William Cecil and your other advisers, and restore the true religion in England, then you could marry Lord Robert as soon as you please, because King Philip would give you his full support, and with that behind you no one would dare to oppose your union. And I myself would gladly officiate at the nuptials.”

Elizabeth could see that the good humor had fled from Robert’s face, but before he could say anything compromising, she beamed at the bishop and thanked him for his advice and his good care for her affairs. She even went so far as to say that she would consider what he had said, and ignored Robert’s angry gesturing behind Quadra’s back. Later, though, when they were alone, and he had the presumption to take her to task for dissembling over such an important issue, she lost her temper.

“I am Queen of this realm! Do not question my wisdom, Robin. I was invested with it at my coronation, and it is not seemly for mere mortals to disparage me. You would not have spoken to my father thus!”

“I did not bed with your father!” he flung back. “You’re very willing to come down from your cloud and consort with a mere mortal at such times.”

“Pah! Don’t count on it, Robin. And you should know that it is in England’s interests to have Spain’s friendship at this time.”

“Even if it means compromising your principles over religion?”

Elizabeth snorted. “You know me better than that. Come, dear Eyes, let’s not quarrel. It was a lovely evening until you spoiled it.”

He came to her then; he could never resist her, and again he felt that her hand, the ultimate prize, was within his reach. But that night, as on
the other nights that had passed since she had pushed him away, she seemed distracted and tense, and he had cause, lying there wakeful in the small hours, to wonder what his future held.

It seemed that Elizabeth was again playing games. Word had come that Erik of Sweden, ardent as ever, was on his way to England to renew his courtship.

“I don’t know why he bothers,” Robert growled, and was heartened to be told by his friends that it was all over the court that the Queen had eyes for no one but him, and that people were laying bets as to when, not if, they would marry. But then a new portrait of Erik arrived, in advance of his person. Elizabeth had it set up in her presence chamber, and stood admiring it as her courtiers clustered around. She smiled archly at Robert, then turned her head to the painted face on the panel.

“If the King is as handsome as his picture, no woman could resist him,” she declared wickedly, and as she chatted to all and sundry her eyes kept straying in its direction, ignoring Robert standing simmering beside her.

He had cause to simmer even more when she received the ambassador of Charles IX, the new King of France. Mary Stuart’s sickly young husband, Francis II, had recently died, and his brother now reigned. The Queen Mother, Catherine de’ Medici, had made it plain that Mary was no longer welcome in France, and so she had returned home to Scotland, which was now in the grip of its Protestant lords. It pleased Elizabeth to think of the inexperienced Catholic Mary, who had dared to lay claim to her own crown, having to deal with these hardened, unforgiving men: barbarians, the lot of them, as Bacon had said. They would keep her well occupied and keep her from making mischief!

But at least the Scottish lords were friendly to Protestant England, which would curb Mary’s pretensions; and now King Charles was offering his friendship.

“Madame,” his ambassador said, “my master not only sends his
good wishes, but he has instructed me to say that he thinks you should marry Lord Robert Dudley. Indeed, he desires to meet Lord Robert.”

Robert’s face brightened beatifically at that, and he looked at Elizabeth as if to say,
There! Not only Spain desires our marriage, but France too. The way has been smoothed for us …

He was taking too much for granted! Turning to the French ambassador, the Queen smiled sweetly. “It would scarcely be honorable to send a groom to see so great a king.”

A groom?
How dare she refer to her Master of Horse, one of the proud Dudleys, thus! Robert burned with shame and fury, inflamed by the furtive smiles of the watching courtiers. Reptiles, all of them!

“Ah, but I cannot do without my Lord Robert,” the Queen was saying, “for he is like my little dog, and whenever he comes into a room, people know that I am near.”

How Robert kept his temper, he never knew, but anger was hot within him. What drove her to humiliate him publicly in this way? Did he mean so little to her? This was not the woman who had lain in his arms night after night. How could she be so two-faced, a female Janus? He thought of locking his door against her, but when it came to it, he could not bring himself to do so. And in the end he was glad of that, because when he was lying there spent but unsatisfied after a stormy row that ended in passionate embraces, Elizabeth reached over to her bedside table, handed him a document granting him a pension of a thousand pounds a year—a staggeringly generous sum—and hope sprang anew.

After that his star was in the ascendant. He and she were as close as ever. Wherever she went, he was just one step behind. Occasionally, cloaked and masked, she accompanied him to taverns, shooting matches, bear pits, and other places a queen could never go. He would marvel at her, downing a flagon of ale with her coarsest subjects, or yelling out encouragement to the dog on whom she had wagered or the archer she favored. She reveled in the freedom of it, enjoying the chatter and opinions of ordinary people, honest plain folk who would
not cozen her with flattery and tell her what she wanted to hear. It was instructive, to say the least.