The Marriage Game (39 page)

The rumors about the Queen and the Earl of Leicester had never subsided completely. Tales that they were secretly married (bad enough), or had children (worse), or were fornicating shamelessly (shocking, but so enjoyable in the telling), were still in circulation. Reports of these came through with dismal regularity to the council, and offenders were dealt with increasingly severely. Some were sentenced to the pillory, some to a spell in jail, others to have their ears cut off.

Often Robert found himself wishing there was truth in the rumors. He was forty and still single; he had no children to carry on his line or inherit his fortune and his great houses; and as for fornication (he sighed very deeply when he read those particular calumnies), it was years since he and Elizabeth had shared a bed, and for most of those years he had not—fool that he probably was—been able to bring himself to betray her with another woman.

The truth was, he loved her, and a part of him still believed that she would relent and marry him after all. The more rational part of him was coming to terms with the fact that it might never happen. But while there was hope, he could live with the frustrations imposed by his invidious position.

In truth, he never had been able to understand why Elizabeth would not marry him. Her fears seemed to be trifles, or excuses, more like. If she had permitted Thomas Seymour to penetrate her defenses, why
should she not allow him the same joy? For joy it would be, for them both, he had absolutely no doubt. There were deep bonds between them that would never be severed, bonds of love, loyalty, and devotion. In many respects they were like a long-married couple, looking to each other’s interests, tolerating each other’s foibles (although he, it had to be said, was obliged to be far more tolerant than Elizabeth), sharing likes and dislikes, and giving affection and support.

But it wasn’t enough! And Elizabeth was still egging Hatton on, flirting openly with him. If you believed Hatton, she had led him to think that she loved him above all others. There had even been talk that Hatton enjoyed what he, Leicester, had been denied for thirteen years now. At the very least she had permitted Hatton some liberties—possibly the same liberties she had permitted him. Not to be borne!

Yet Elizabeth still wanted him near her all the time. Robert was almost permanently at her side when she sat enthroned in her presence chamber; he attended her often when she ate, standing by the table or—when they were alone—sitting down with her. He was her constant daily companion, and she did not trouble to hide her affection for him. Much of her flirting with Hatton was done in his presence, greatly to his chagrin, but he reasoned that she probably did it to make him jealous. Maybe he should not be jealous; maybe he should be content with his lot. He was King in all but name: the court deferred to him as if he wore the crown matrimonial, Elizabeth sought his confidential advice in matters of state, much as she would a husband’s, and he enjoyed great riches and privileges. But the very thought of them begged the question: who would inherit them when he was gone? And so he would come around again to the vexing question of marriage and children. Soon Elizabeth would be too old for motherhood—she would be forty next year—and he himself was older. He was weary to his bones of waiting for his future to be decided.

Recently, jealous because of Elizabeth’s intrigues with Hatton, Robert had indulged in a flirtation with two young ladies of the Queen’s household, Douglass Howard, Lady Sheffield, and her sister, Frances. Douglass was twenty-five and very beautiful, with a high forehead and luxuriant raven hair piled high on her head—a true Howard. Widowed
at twenty, she was ripe for an affair, and Robert seized his advantage, much to the fury of her sister, who fancied him too.

It began as a flirtation, a game that was never intended to be serious. What Robert did not expect was to experience more than desire for Douglass, and for his feelings for Elizabeth to change. Imperceptibly he found himself longing for Douglass’s presence, the vital warmth of her, her come-to-bed eyes; and he also found himself regarding Elizabeth as past history. That shocked him. How could he possibly feel that way about the woman whom he had been desperate for so long to marry? But, he had to admit, it was true: Elizabeth no longer ignited passion in him; friendship and devotion, yes, and had she been willing, he would still have wed her, for ambition was lively in him. Yet the fact was—and he must face it—that she was not willing, and never had been. Could it be—dare he think—that his future lay with Douglass?

While seeking to quell the confusion in his heart, he knew that he had to be extremely careful. Elizabeth had already remarked upon the catfights between Douglass and Frances.

“They keep squabbling over some fool who had the poor sense to come after them both,” she’d said. “Well, I’ll not put up with it. If they can’t behave as young ladies should, I will send them home.”

Robert looked at her furtively. There was no hint that she was baiting him. He thought she had not guessed who the fool in question was, and that pursuing Douglass would prove to be a risky business.

He made it his business to warn first Douglass, then Frances, to cease their spatting, but he could not stop the rumors that were somehow proliferating in court. The favorite was having an affair! People were agog. It was bruited that he and Douglass had been lovers for years, had in fact committed adultery during the lifetime of her husband. One tale even had it that Robert had poisoned Lord Sheffield after the latter had discovered them in flagrante and ridden posthaste to London to demand a divorce. Robert sighed when he heard that one. It was so obviously untrue—
and
it was not the first time his enemies had accused him of poisoning someone. Where did such tales originate? How did people know that he was sleeping with Douglass? They had taken such care to be discreet. Did the very walls have ears?

He took to arranging secret trysts in his own house, or away from London, at inns far beyond the eyes and ears of the court. Never did he contemplate smuggling Douglass into his lodging, which was close to Elizabeth’s. He trusted no one; he dared not think of the consequences if word of their liaison ever reached the ears of the Queen. Of course, he could have called a halt to the whole thing, save for the fact that he was so smitten—led by his codpiece, he ruefully told himself. It was unutterably good to feel intense desire for a woman again.

But Douglass wanted marriage, not just an affair.

“I cannot, sweeting,” Robert kept telling her. “My devotion to Her Majesty precludes my making any other commitment.”

Douglass pouted. Her lips really were most delectable. He found himself fantasizing about them and the swell of her firm, full breasts above the pearl-encrusted border of her bodice. Elizabeth’s breasts were small, not much for a man to cup. It worried him that he was making such comparisons.

“Do you
really
think the Queen will marry you?” Douglass asked doubtfully.

“I live in hope,” he admitted.

A slight frown furrowed her perfect brow. “It is unkind of her, and unfair, to make you wait. A man like you should be married with a brace of sons at his knee. The words ‘dog in a manger’ spring to mind.”

“You should not speak of the Queen like that,” Robert reproved gently.

“Pardon me!” Douglass said, tossing her hair. “She does not like me, and I would give her more cause not to!” She leaned into him, revealing a little more of her bosom than was decent.

“Darling, I have told you, I am committed to the Queen,” he protested, feeling himself grow hard. “There are two ways open to us: you could continue as my mistress, which I should like more than anything in the world; or I will help you to find a husband.”

“Neither is acceptable to me,” Douglass said, her mouth a little moue.

“Sweetheart,” he pleaded, “as you know, I cherish you. I want you to be mine. I am a man, with a man’s frailties, but even so, one with a conscience, and I mean to act honestly in this matter.”

“How can you be acting honestly when my reputation is being dragged in the mire?” Douglass pouted. “Today I heard servants gossiping that I had borne you a child. I told them never to repeat any such thing, as it was not true, but I could see by their smirking that they did not believe me.”

A chill shivered down Robert’s spine. If the palace servants were repeating gossip like that, it would not be long before the Queen heard it; in fact it was as inevitable as death. Truly, it was becoming impossible to keep this love affair a secret, and Douglass was right: her reputation would soon be irrevocably ruined.

“I have done everything in my power to protect us,” he said, knowing that it sounded lame and promised her nothing.

“Except the one thing that would silence the gossips!” she retorted. “My lord, when my family placed me with the Queen, it was to guard my reputation and help me to another good marriage. My honor is very dear to me, as I am sure it is to Her Majesty. What would she say if she heard that I am your mistress?” She smiled sweetly at him.

Robert dropped his head in his hands and groaned. The threat had been implicit.

“Very well, I will marry you,” he said, knowing it was not what he wanted, but that lust and honor had to be satisfied. “But it must remain our secret. There would be serious consequences if word of it got out.” He refrained—just in time—from adding that Douglass might as well remain his mistress, for all the good marriage would do her.

She kissed him lasciviously, her little tongue toying with his, and permitted his hands to rove over her bodice; her dancing eyes said that he might go much further later. She had gotten what she wanted.

But she rejoiced too soon. When Robert arrived one day at the pretty house he had rented for Douglass at Esher, and saw it filled with spring flowers in preparation for their wedding, he knew a terrible doubt. And when Douglass told him that she was with child, a child that—ironically—he wanted but dared not own, he knew that he would not marry her after all. She could not threaten him now. One word of her illicit pregnancy and she would never be received at court again—and neither, he feared, would he. He told her—God forgive
him the lie—that he had new hopes of the Queen, and that his first duty naturally must be to her. Douglass ranted at him and even screamed, but to no avail. He would support her and her child, he promised, and visit her when he could. She was weeping as copiously as Niobe when he left, and it was a long time before she rose miserably to her feet and laid away the beautiful cream satin wedding gown embroidered with gold forget-me-nots, thinking that she would never trust a man again.

1574
 

Robert had a son. Elizabeth was appalled to hear it. The mother was that trollop Douglass Sheffield, whom she had rightly guessed was no better than she should be. The child had been christened with little fuss, but sufficient to warrant word of the event being bruited around the court, and the Queen had overheard Frances Howard prattling about it. They even had the effrontery to name the brat after Robert, proclaiming his paternity to the world.

How
could
he have betrayed her so—and with such a one? She spent many a sleepless night weeping into her pillow, devising numerous ways of exacting revenge on them both. The torturers in the Tower had nothing in their repertoire compared to what she was planning to do to Robert and his dirty little whore. She was mortified to realize that their affair had probably been going on last year, on her birthday even, when Robert had come to her, all smiles and adoration, and presented her with a gorgeous fan of white feathers with a handle of gold engraved with his emblem—the bear—and hers, the lion of England—entwined, if you please! And this when he was actually entwined—and certainly not in the heraldic sense—with another woman. What an empty conceit—and deceit, yea—his gift had turned out to be! And now, she supposed, he was celebrating the birth of his bastard.

Indeed he was. True to his word, Robert was maintaining the establishment for Douglass at Esher, and visited her there when he could
get away from court, although his visits were never tranquil. How could they be after he had jilted her? Even so, he took delight in the lusty son she had borne him, but bitterly regretted the fact that this fine boy, his namesake, was of necessity baseborn, the child of his sin. For, great lord such as he was, it seemed a cruel irony that the only son he had sired could not inherit his lands and property. It was at times like these that he found himself filled with resentment against Elizabeth. Other men married at their pleasure. Why couldn’t he? It wasn’t as if she wanted to marry him herself!

But if he was strictly honest with himself, he knew that his desire for a son had not been strong enough to spur him into risking all by marrying Douglass. His passion for her was dying an easy death, for she was neither his soul mate nor his intellectual equal, as—he must concede—Elizabeth undoubtedly was. And Douglass, who had once seemed invested with all that was becoming in a woman, was fast turning into a shrew. It shamed her that the world knew she was Leicester’s cast-off leman, hidden away so she should not offend the Queen, and that her son was a bastard. Her reputation was ruined.