The Marriage Game (32 page)

“True,” Elizabeth sniffed. “But she has done something I cannot do!”

“Why can you not do it? Ask yourself. The past is behind you.”

“Ah, Robin,” Elizabeth said sadly, “it is not just the past that deters me. Were I to have a son, there would be those who would clamor for me to stand aside so that a man could rule. I know the temper of my lords.”

“Not so, Bess!” Robert protested. “It may have been so at first, but you have proved your mettle now, and they love and respect you for yourself. And with a husband standing firmly beside you, supporting you, no one would dare try to take from you the crown that is rightfully yours.”

“Ah, Robin, you make it seem so simple!” Elizabeth cried, breaking free. “And no doubt the husband you speak of would be yourself.”

“It
is
simple, Bess!” He went down on one knee and seized her hand. “I pray you, marry me! I would be your strength and support; I would honor you and respect your position.”

Elizabeth looked down at him. Her tears had dried and she was smiling. “I will consider it,” she agreed. “It is Christmas now. I will give you an answer by Candlemas!”

“But that is weeks away!” he cried.

“Then you must wait!” she told him. “It is not so very long, and you can be sure that I will weigh very seriously what you have asked me.”

He was more confident of success this time, even though he’d lost count of the other times he had been hopeful. He felt that he had presented Elizabeth with the most acceptable solution to her concerns. It would be enough for him to be her husband and wear the crown matrimonial; he would not pursue sovereign power. Instead he was resolved to use his influence much as he did now. But over the Christmas festivities he could not resist dropping hints about the imminent change in his prospects, and bearing himself like the king he hoped soon to be, while Elizabeth let him do it, and kept him constantly at her side.

The court buzzed with speculation. Robert’s enemies girded their loins for protest. The French ambassador spread it around—without any truth—that the Queen and her lover had slept together on New Year’s night. Silva angrily denied it, fearing that if this got back to the Emperor—and the diplomatic grapevine was alive with gossip—it would scupper the match with the Archduke.

An ugly incident at the Twelfth Night feast did not help matters. To Robert’s fury, Thomas Heneage drew the sought-after bean hidden in the traditional cake, and was chosen as King of the Bean for the evening, his ancient office being to preside over the revelry.

“We must do everything he commands!” Elizabeth cried, laughing at the prospect. Who knew what undignified and hilarious challenges, dares, forfeits, or orders the King of the Bean would issue? No one had forgotten the Christmas that witnessed the stately Cecil crawling about on his knees under the high table looking for the Queen’s slipper (which had, helpfully, been hidden beneath her skirts), or Elizabeth herself planting a kiss on the lips of her highly embarrassed Archbishop of Canterbury. Robert himself had been King of the Bean then.

Heneage was suddenly at Robert’s ear. “Ask Her Majesty which is the more difficult to erase from the mind—jealousy, or an evil opinion implanted by a wicked tale-teller,” he ordered.

“What the hell are you implying?” Robert asked angrily. “People will think that I have been unfaithful to the Queen.”

“Do it!” Heneage snarled. “Or I will tell the company that you have refused to obey me.” People were already staring curiously at them.

Robert rose unwillingly to his feet. He posed the question to Elizabeth.

“Both are difficult to get rid of,” she answered, “but in my opinion it is much harder to remove jealousy.” She gave him a strange look.

“I will castigate you with a stick!” he muttered to Heneage.

“That is not a punishment for an equal,” Heneage retorted, “and if you come to insult me thus, you will discover whether my sword can cut and thrust.”

Others were avidly taking in every word of this heated exchange.

“This gentleman is not my equal,” Robert said stiffly, “and I will postpone chastizing him until an appropriate time.”

Soon afterward he watched as Heneage approached the Queen and whispered in her ear. She frowned and summoned Robert to her side. “If, by my favor, you have become insolent, my lord, you should soon reform,” she reproved him. “Remember, I could debase you just as I have raised you.” Heneage stood by, grinning smugly.

Robert was extremely hurt. The episode had depressed him, and he stayed in his lodgings for the next four days, not venturing to sally forth into a court that would be either hostile or laughing at him. He felt deeply humiliated, and wondered why Elizabeth had turned on him so unfairly.

Elizabeth too was upset. Heneage’s insinuation that Robert had betrayed her struck at her heart and she lashed out accordingly. But on reflection—which did take several days—she concluded that the slur had been born of sheer malice and envy. No wonder Robin was hurt.

She summoned him, and there was yet another tearful reunion. Robert thought it augured well for the future. It was plain that she could not do without him.

1566
 

In the name of friendship, King Charles had graciously decided to bestow the Order of St. Michael—France’s highest order of chivalry—upon two of Elizabeth’s subjects, the choice to be hers. She named Leicester and Norfolk—Leicester because she needed once more to placate him for her failure to name the day, and Norfolk to preempt any jealousy. She need not have bothered. Norfolk was so resentful of Leicester receiving the honor that it took all her powers of persuasion to stop him from boycotting the investiture.

Robert was—almost—certain that the ceremony was a prelude to the announcement of his forthcoming marriage to the Queen. But Candlemas came and departed without Elizabeth mentioning marriage at all, let alone making a proclamation.

“How many more times will you break your word?” he raged.

Elizabeth sighed. “Robin, be patient, just for a little longer. This is a delicate time in regard to foreign negotiations. And to please me, pretend to support the Habsburg marriage.”

“Very well,” he flung back. “Marry the Archduke, for the sake of your realm. Don’t worry about me.”

“I commend you for your selflessness,” she said, deliberately ignoring his sarcasm.

He could not believe it when, later that day, he saw her brazenly flirting with the gallant Earl of Ormond. It was too much. After another
violent quarrel, heated sufficiently, it seemed, to make the very walls combust, he left court.

He’d had
enough
, he told himself as he rode furiously to his house at Kew. He was
weary
of strife and the intrigues of the court, and Elizabeth’s endless, tortuous games. He was
sick
of being blamed for her failure to marry, even though he had urged her to do so countless times. Everyone marked his failings,
never
his better qualities.

Cecil wrote to him, as did Throckmorton. Feeling genuinely sorry for him, and concerned that the only viable husband for the Queen was out of her sight, and possibly—this was even more worrying—out of her mind, they kept him updated on state affairs. Robert wrote to Cecil that he despaired of Elizabeth ever marrying, and was taken aback to read that she was still in a vile mood, and that if he took Cecil’s advice he would stay away from court, lest he incur any more blame. When he thought about it, in truth he was glad to do so.

The trees were in bud and a light March breeze in the air when Cecil brought Elizabeth a letter bearing the Queen of Scots’ seal. She read it with mounting horror.

“God’s death!” she swore. “Rizzio has been murdered.”

According to Mary, Darnley and many of the lords who had once opposed him had burst in upon her as she was having supper with Rizzio and a few friends. There was an unseemly brawl, with Mary’s very life threatened. One conspirator had even rammed a chair into her belly—and she six months gone with child. Darnley held her fast as the lords dragged a frantic Rizzio from her presence and stabbed him to death, fifty-six times. Mary then found herself a prisoner, for the lords had gotten Darnley on their side by promising he could rule in her name, but she persuaded him—with truth, no doubt, given what Elizabeth knew of these turncoats—that they had no intention of keeping their word. Together, she and Darnley escaped, and now, thanks to the support of the loyal and trusty Earl of Bothwell, she had reasserted her authority and the traitors were in flight. But it had been a close thing.

Elizabeth shuddered; in fact she could not stop trembling. That a queen, answerable only to God, should be disparaged and threatened thus was scandalous, and treason of the highest order. She too was a queen. What would it take to make her lords plot against her in such a way? Not that she could imagine it, for she ruled by their love, but it was a salutary warning. You did not take these things for granted. She had been right all along not to marry. Darnley’s base example proved that. But arrogant fool that he was, he’d been a mere pawn in the conspirators’ hands. What had happened proved that Mary was isolated and vulnerable—and that made Elizabeth feel vulnerable too.

Loudly, she voiced her horror at the way Mary had been treated. She attached her miniature of the Scottish queen to a chain and wore it at her waist to proclaim her solidarity with her dearest sister. She told Silva, “Had I been in her place, I would have taken my husband’s dagger and stabbed him with it!” Seeing his aghast expression, which clearly told her that he believed her capable of it, she hastened to add, “Of course, I would never do such a thing to the Archduke!”

She wrote to Mary; there was a new kindness between them. She wished her dear sister a happy hour (Heaven knew, the poor woman had few enough of them), praying that God would send her only short pains when she bore her child. “I too am big with desire for the good news,” she concluded—and meant it.

Still feeling vulnerable, she sent one of her ladies to summon Robert, with a message complaining of his unkindness. As she had hoped, he came to her, full of apologies, and they made up their quarrel, as with the many preceding that one, but during his absence a distance had grown between them.

“Never again will I permit you to leave my side,” Elizabeth declared.

“I am yours to command,” Robert answered formally, still smarting from having had to apologize for what
she
had done—or, rather, not done.

“God’s blood, Robin, must you be so stiff with me?” she exploded.

“I am your devoted servant, you know it,” he answered, with more warmth than he felt.

She sighed. “I want more than that, and
you
know it.”

“All I ask is that you show the world that you hold me in some esteem,” he replied.

She promised that she would. She assured him that she would never humiliate him publicly again. She kept him once more at her side, showed him the same favor as of old, and did her best to cease flirting with her other admirers; not very successfully, for she was born to it. All the same, they did not fall into their old easiness with each other.

In April, unable to bear the situation any longer, Robert craved leave to visit his estates in Norfolk.

“Is this how you repay me for my favor?” Elizabeth challenged him.

“Bess, I
must
go. Pressing business calls me, otherwise I would not leave you for the world.” But his words lacked conviction. She let him go.

No sooner had he arrived in Norfolk than a letter from her caught up with him. He read it, appalled. What had he done to deserve such a stinging, vicious rebuke? He had never meant to offend her. Surely the coolness between them was as painful for her as it was for him, and she, like he, welcomed the respite. Did his long service and years of devotion and loyalty count for nothing? He had tried, God, he had tried, just to find his way back to how it had once been between them, and those heady days of love and glory. But he was beginning to think it might be impossible to recapture that. If you had to try so hard, maybe the moment had gone. And maybe Elizabeth knew it too. He was so grieved that he wanted to crawl into a cave, or even a tomb—somewhere, anywhere, he could find oblivion.

Then a fresh summons came. The Queen commanded his return to court. He went with a leaden heart, not knowing what to expect, and not daring to hope. But hope, as it proverbially does, sprang anew when he was informed that she would receive him in private, and it leapt for joy when she stretched out her hands, her eyes full of tears. This time, he would not be the one doing the apologizing.