I used to wonder whether her upbringing had had some effect on her. She had been a baby of three when her mother had died, but she was old enough—being exceptionally precocious—to have missed her. It seemed hardly likely that her gay and clever mother spent a great deal of time with her daughter, but I imagined the visits she did pay would have been memorable to the child. Anne Boleyn had been noted for her elegant taste and I had heard that she took a delight in dressing her daughter in beautiful garments. Then suddenly she would have disappeared. I could picture the quick-witted little girl asking questions and not being satisfied with the answers. The lovely clothes came no more and instead her governess had had to send special pleas to the King for a few necessary garments of which his daughter was in urgent need. A father would be formidable who had beheaded two wives. One stepmother had died in childbirth, another had been despised and divorced; and lastly there had been Katharine Parr, the kind and lovely Dowager Queen whose husband she had philandered with to such an extent that she had been dismissed from their home. Then had followed a life spent in and out of prisons with the executioner's ax suspended precariously over her head. And at last to come to the throne. No wonder she was determined to keep it. No wonder, with such a father, she distrusted the passions of men. Could this be the reason why she was not going to surrender one small part of her power ... even to her beloved Robert?
But he was growing very restive as the months passed and we often overheard sharp words between them. Once we heard her reminding him that she was the Queen and he had better take care. After that he would go away sullenly and she would fret for him, and he would come back and they would be friends again.
There was a great deal of talk about what was happening in Scotland.
Mary had married Darnley, much to Elizabeth's secret amusement although she pretended to be incensed about it. She used to laugh about Mary with Robert. "She'll sup sorrow with a long spoon," she said, "and to think that she might have had you, Robert."
I believed she wanted to punish Mary for not taking Robert although she, Elizabeth, had no intention that she should.
She was now winning the true respect of the wily politicians around her. Men like William Cecil, Chancellor Nicholas Bacon and the Earl of Sussex began to see in her an astute politician. Her position in the beginning had been an uneasy one. How could she feel safe when the slur of illegitimacy could be flung at her at any time? There could never have been a ruler in a more vulnerable position than Elizabeth. She was about thirty-three years of age at this time and somehow she had managed to find a place in her people's hearts which rivaled that which her father had held. In spite of everything he had done he had never lost the people's favor; he might squander the country's wealth on ventures such as the Field of the Cloth of Gold; he might take six wives and murder two of them; but he was still their hero and their King and there had never been a serious attempt to depose him. Elizabeth was his daughter in looks and in manner; her voice resembled his; she swore as he had done; everywhere she went it was said: "There goes great Harry's daughter," and she knew that this was one of the greatest advantages she possessed. No one could deny the fact that she was Henry's daughter and that there had been a time when he had accepted her as legitimate.
But she must be wary and she was. Mary Queen of Scots was a claimant to the throne. Therefore what better than to marry her to a weak dissolute youth who would help to being Scotland low and disgust those who might be inclined to favor Mary. Catharine and Mary Grey—Lady Jane's sisters—were both in the Tower, having married without the Queen's consent. Thus she had arranged that those in England who might be considered to have a greater claim to the throne than she had were safely under lock and key.
News came that the Queen of Scots was pregnant. This was disconcerting. If Mary showed herself fruitful by bearing a son, people would begin comparing her with the Queen of England. She was downcast until news came of that fateful supper in Holyrood House in Edinburgh when, before the eyes of the heavily pregnant Queen, her Italian secretary Rizzio had been murdered. She pretended to be shocked and angry when the suggestion that Rizzio was Mary's lover was mentioned, but she was secretly pleased. At the same time she was wistful. Oh, she was an enigma, this Queen of ours.
The Court was at Greenwich—a favorite palace of the Queen's because she had been born there. The presence chamber here was very fine, hung with rich tapestry, and she always enjoyed showing newcomers the room in which she was born. She would stand in that room, a strange expression in her eyes, and I wondered whether she was thinking of her mother's lying there, exhausted, with her beautiful black hair spread on the pillow. Was she thinking of the agony of Anne Boleyn when she was told: "It is a girl" when a boy would have made all the difference to her future. There would be a fierce determination in her face sometimes as though she were telling herself she would prove better than any boy.
Well, there we were on this occasion—she in one of her magnificent dresses from her overfull wardrobe, white and crimson satin sewn all over with pearls the size of birds' eggs, and a ruff in which tiny diamonds glittered like dewdrops.
She was dancing with Thomas Heneage, a very handsome man to whom she was beginning to show a great deal of favor, when William Cecil entered. There was that about his demeanor which suggested that he had important news to impart, and the Queen signed to him to come to her at once. He whispered to her and I saw her turn pale. I was near her, dancing with Christopher Hatton, one of the finest dancers at Court.
"Your Majesty is unwell?" I whispered.
Several of her women gathered round, and she looked at us mournfully saying: "The Queen of Scots is lighter of a fair son and I am but a barren stock."
Her mouth was drawn down and she looked sad and pale. Cecil whispered something to her and she nodded.
"Send Melville to me," she said, "that I may tell him of my pleasure."
When the Scottish Ambassador was brought to her all vestige of sadness left her. She gaily told him that she had heard the news and rejoiced in it. "My sister of Scotland is indeed blessed," she said.
"It is a miracle of God that the child has been safely delivered," replied Melville.
"Ah yes. Such strife there has been in Scotland, but this fine boy will be her comfort."
When Melville asked if she would be godmother to the Prince she replied: "Right gladly."
Later I saw her eyes follow Robert, and I thought: She can't go on like this. A son born to the Queen of Scots has brought home to her so clearly her need to give an heir to England. She'll take Robert Dudley now, for surely she always intended to have him in the end.
I was in such high favor with the Queen that New Year that she gave me thirteen yards of black velvet to be made into a gown, which was a costly present.
We were at Greenwich for the Twelfth Night festivities. I was in a mood of excitement because I believed that during the last few weeks Robert Dudley had become aware of me. Often in a crowded room I would look up suddenly and find his eyes on me. A look would pass between us and we would smile.