Elizabeth (21 page)

“What are you thinking, Robert?”

“I was wondering what will happen to us when the Queen finds out?”

“There is no reason why she should,” Lettice Essex said. “There is no reason why anyone should know. We were discreet last night, we can go on being discreet.”

“Go on?” Leicester raised himself on one elbow. “God's death, aren't you nervous of her?”

“Terrified—if she discovers anything. But then my husband wouldn't be pleased with me either. But I still want to go on, my dear ungallant Robert. I am quite dementedly in love with you, and I have been for some time. This was my first opportunity to get near you without Her Majesty's proprietary eye watching every move, and it was a marvellous success. I think you'll agree to that.” She touched his cheek with one finger and her eyes shone at him in the half-light.

“I don't think you'll turn me away,” she continued. “I think you are man enough to enjoy yourself without trembling at the mention of a woman who won't perform the same little services for you herself, legally or otherwise.”

“How are you so sure?” he asked her, wondering why he made no attempt to stop her hand in its cunning caress of his face and neck. He did not love her; he was too obsessed by Elizabeth to feel any tenderness for another woman, but he was not incapable of desire, and Lettice was not a bought relief. She was experienced and she had a natural talent for sensual practice.

“How do you know what the Queen refuses and what she grants?” he demanded.

Lettice laughed outright.

“Oh, dear God, how vain men are! I never thought she was your mistress for a single moment when everyone was tongue wagging and scandalizing. I just could not see Elizabeth Tudor like this. And now I know that I was right. You are woefully out of practice, my Lord. You will be so grateful that I found you, after a while.”

She leant over and kissed his mouth. He should have stopped her, but after a moment he returned her kiss. When he fell asleep later, she slipped away to her room.

She joined his other guests that morning, and then returned to London. She had arranged to come down again within three days on the pretext of visiting a cousin who lived close to Wanstead.

That evening Leicester composed a long and humble letter to the Queen asking for her forgiveness. It was the first time since their quarrel that he had approached her personally; he had done something which he knew she would never forgive, and he felt able to humble himself, because he had injured her and intended to continue doing so. Once again he had fallen into a basic error of judgment when he supposed that the love of Elizabeth, the generosity and the trust and the marks of affection which he received without stint, meant that she would ever wake beside him as an ordinary woman. At that moment of honest reflection he admitted that even if he had never disposed of Amy, there was something in Elizabeth that placed her beyond the reach of a mundane relationship, something over and above the normal feminine requirements from which Queens were not expected to be immune. He saw her at last as curiously isolated, not only by her own choice but by the circumstances of her life and her own character. She could not share, much less submit. She had always been alone; she had paid lip service to her stepmothers and his sister Mary without loving any of them even when she was a child. He remembered her so clearly as a little girl, ready to play with anyone who asked her but never really joining in. He was the only one who had come close to her then. They had played together and fought like uninhibited little animals, and the ten-year-old Princess admitted him to an intimacy never achieved by anyone else. He had come close to her again when they were adults. But not close enough. If she hadn't been Queen of England, she would undoubtedly have been dead. There was no middle course for Elizabeth. He knew then that he would never marry her; but his mistake had been human and his attempts were not as presumptuous as she made them out. Only she was strange; strange and unpredictable until one accepted her as different from other women and ceased expecting her to think and feel and act as if she were fallible and sensual and human like Lettice Essex.

He no longer resented having to write that letter, admitting his faults and begging to be taken back. He was suddenly reconciled to the future and he could see it clearly for the first time in years. He would go on living for Elizabeth, taking from her and giving exactly what she asked in return. He would be powerful and honoured and safe with her as long as he did what she wanted. And on the other side of his life he had already admitted the necessity of someone like the Countess of Essex.

CHAPTER EIGHT

They were reconciled, as everyone, Cecil included, expected they would be. Elizabeth was so obviously unhappy and so difficult to deal with that her Ministers were driven to intercede on Leicester's behalf. She was softened by his letter of abject apology, but she indulged in the luxury of postponing his forgiveness a little longer until he feigned an illness and asked to be readmitted to her favour as he feared that he was dying. If the Queen saw through the ruse, she pretended to herself as well as to others and hurried down to Wanstead to revive the invalid. She found him sitting in his room, dressed in a bedgown, with his personal physician persuading him to try and eat. The doctor and his body servant were sent away. Nobody dared to smile when he emerged an hour later, fully dressed and in the best of spirits and took the Queen for a long ride round Wanstead Park.

He was surprised and shaken, when he returned to his duties at Court, to find a particularly handsome young man had entered her circle of intimates during his absence and established himself so firmly that Leicester was unable to oust him. Sir Thomas Heneage was several years younger than Elizabeth, but he was witty, intelligent and amiable. He played cards well, but not too well, so that the Queen always won; he danced gracefully, and was an accomplished musician. He was good enough at all these things to compete with Leicester, and his presence at the evening receptions and the hunting parties gave Leicester the chance to sneak into Lettice Essex's bed whenever he could escape the Queen's vigilance, and he justified his infidelity by pointing out her familiarities with the younger man. He did not know how far the verbal love-play went between them; he wondered in agonies of jealousy whether Heneage enjoyed the intimacies which had once been his privilege, and which were never invited again after his return. He hated Heneage and he hated Lettice when she tormented him with gossip about Elizabeth and her new favourite. He quarrelled as savagely with his mistress as he used to do with the Queen, but he returned to her again and again because no woman had ever given him such flattering proof of his own manhood, and, faced by Elizabeth's unbending frigidity, he was in desperate need of that proof. They were reconciled but it was an uneasy peace, poisoned by suspicions which were not only on his side as he supposed; Elizabeth was sharptongued and irritable with him, pettish if he showed the least sign of independence, affectionate within her chosen limits and then cold as ice. He could feel that a storm even more violent than the last was gathering over his head and he felt helpless to avert it. It was about to break when Elizabeth decided to visit his sister, Mary Sidney, who had apartments at Court but no official post, because she had caught smallpox after nursing the Queen through the disease and was terribly disfigured.

Elizabeth was tired and tense when she came into Lady Sidney's room. She had a sudden urge to seek out someone whom she could trust to defend Robert, someone to whom she could pour out her bitterness and suspicion and know that they were nearly impartial inasmuch as Mary loved her brother and had loved her Queen enough to carry the marks of it forever on her tragic face. Even at that moment it hurt Elizabeth to look into the ruin of her beauty, at the ravaged features, made uglier still by the contrast of her large, luminous brown eyes.

“My poor Sidney—you shouldn't stay shut up in here; it's a clear day—perfect for riding. I shan't visit you for long, and then I order you to go out and take some exercise—enjoy yourself a little!”

Lady Sidney smiled.

“I'm very happy where I am, Madam. And happier still that you always find time to come and comfort me. God bless you for your goodness. Even my own husband is too occupied to waste more than an hour or so looking at this face; and I don't blame him.”

“Well I do!” Elizabeth snapped. She made a note in her mind to remind Sir Henry Sidney not to neglect his wife if he valued his place at Court. “And anyway today I come to you for comfort,” she added, sitting in the chair Mary had drawn up for her.

“Your Majesty could never need comfort from me,” Lady Sidney said gently. “But you know I'd give my life for you if you needed it.”

“You gave your fair looks,” Elizabeth said slowly. “That's more than life for a woman. I do need you. I need you to answer me one question with absolute truth and without fear. Will you?”

“Ask it, Madam.”

The Queen turned round and looked at her.

“Is Robert betraying me with Lady Essex?”

There was a moment of silence before Mary Sidney answered.

“Why do you ask me that question, Madam?”

“Because you are the only person I can trust not to say ‘yes' because they hate Robert, or ‘no' because they're afraid of me. Is he?”

“Yes,” Lady Sidney said quietly, “Yes, I believe he is.”

“I knew it.” Elizabeth got up; she stood in the middle of the room, her hands clenching into fists. “Now I'm going to ask you another question, no—two questions. Why did he do it, and what in Jesus' name am I going to do with him?”

“He did it,” his sister answered, “because you gave him too much opportunity. Robert is very proud, Madam, especially so where you're concerned. He always thought you'd marry him; he used to say so and I used to tell him not to be a fool; but he would have it. He would have it that you loved him and would make up your mind one day. Now he knows you never will—so I suppose he fell a victim to Lettice at a weak moment, and he feels free to deceive you because you have disappointed him. I'm not excusing him; God knows I haven't much sympathy with infidelity; and God knows how many beds Henry has been in and out of since I caught the smallpox. But you asked me why, and I have told you what I think. Truthfully, Madam, and not to spare Robert.”

“And what do I do?” Elizabeth asked her. “Can you tell me that too?”

“No.” Lady Sidney shook her head. “I could only compare you with myself, Madam, and that would be ridiculous. I know how unhappy I should be without Henry, even though I see so little of him. So I have chosen the lesser of the two evils and I accept him as he is. What you do, depends upon how much my brother means to you. And whether it is possible for someone like you, Madam, to take the easy way of an ordinary woman, and look through your fingers as I do.”

“How much does he mean to me?” Elizabeth repeated the words slowly. “If I could answer that I'd know so many things.… I was wretched when he was at Wanstead. I had Tom Heneage and half a dozen others and a life so full I hardly had time to sleep, but I was bored and I was lonely. I could tear his eyes out when we quarrel and we only quarrel when he tries to marry me and force me into something which I know is impossible and disastrous for us both. He is an ambitious man, your brother. I wouldn't give a farthing piece for my own life if he was ever in a position to dispute for my crown.”

“Our father was the same,” Mary Sidney said. “He pursued power as some men pursue women; sometimes I think the letch is stronger. Robert is what you say, and more; I know him very well and he is just like father. They could both beguile the birds off the trees when they wanted to be charming, and they could cast off their own flesh and blood to further their ambitions. My other brother, Guildford, married a Queen of England, and they cut off his head an hour before hers. I used to remind Robert of that too. But Robert will never threaten you, Madam, simply because you are too strong and too clever to let him. You can afford Robert, and others like him, you know that, and he knows that. He knows that he is no match for you, and perhaps that is another reason why he likes to see himself through the eyes of a stupid harlot like Lady Essex.”

“You advise me to look through my fingers,” Elizabeth said at last.

“I advise you to suit yourself, Madam. If Robert means happiness to you, then keep him. After all, very few women love saints, or want them. If you can cast him off and not regret him, then do that. But give me your word that you will never tell him you discussed it with me. If he knew I had answered that first question of yours as I did, I believe he'd kill me.”

“He will never know,” Elizabeth said. “So I'm afraid he will never be as grateful to you as he should be. If I hadn't talked to you, I think I would have certainly sent him to the Tower in the end. Now, I shall—look through my fingers.”

She came forward quickly and resting one hand on Lady Sidney's shoulder, she bent and kissed her ravaged cheek.

“I am doubly your debtor, my dear Sidney. I thank you with all my heart.”

“It was good of you, Sir William, to provide me with such a fine horse.”

Cecil shrugged at Lord James sitting opposite him; they were alone in Cecil's private rooms at Nonsuch Palace, the favourite country residence of Henry VIII before he acquired Hampton Court, and a retreat which Elizabeth used during the early spring.

“A small gift, Lord Moray; I'm not much of a horseman myself but I'm a competent judge.”

“I feel you are that at everything you undertake,” Moray said slowly. He had been looking hard at Cecil for the last ten minutes without being able to extend his judgment of him any further then when he saw him first in the Queen's ante-chamber. Quiet and deliberate in speech and manner, dressed as soberly as Lord Moray himself, yet resistant as steel, and probably as sharp if he were roused.