When I realized increasingly how much Robert meant to her I grew very uneasy.
Robert had had a room at Wanstead made into what was called the Queen's Chamber. Throughout the house he indulged his love of extravagant splendor, but the chamber set aside for the Queen must naturally surpass all others. The bed was gilded and the walls covered with tinsel cloth so that it shimmered as the light caught it; and, knowing her addiction to cleanliness, he had had a hothouse installed so that she could take baths when she was there.
'Tis a fine place, Lettice," she said, "but it cannot fail to be dull lacking the presence of its master."
She sent word to him that she was at Wanstead and his reply delighted her. She read it to me.
"Poor Robin," she declared, "he is beside himself with frustration. He cannot bear to think of my being here and he not at hand to get his players to work for my pleasure and to get off his fireworks. I tell you this: The sight of him would mean more to me than all the plays and fireworks in my kingdom. He says that had he known I was going there, my Eyes would have left Buxton whatever the doctors said. And so he would."
She folded the letter and tucked it into her bosom.
I fervently wished she were less devoted to him. I knew that when—or perhaps if—we married, there would be dire trouble; and there was something else which made me uneasy. I believed I was pregnant. I was not sure whether this was good or not, for I saw in it a chance of bringing matters to a conclusion.
I would not have another miscarriage if I could help it. The last had depressed me considerably, for there was a side to my nature which surprised me. I did love my children, and they meant more to me than I would have believed possible; and when I thought of those I would have by Robert, I was very happy. But if we were to have a family, now was the time to begin.
The Queen's ministers had never ceased to urge her to marry, for there was constant anxiety as to the succession. They reckoned that if she would marry immediately there might still be time for her to give the country an heir. She was forty-five. Yes, it was late in life to begin childbearing, but her body was in good state. She had never abused it by overdrinking and overeating; she had taken regular exercise; she tired most of us out with her dancing; she rode and walked and was full of energy, both physical and mental. So they believed there might just be time.
This was a delicate matter for them to discuss with her, for she would become very angry if it were suggested she were no longer youthful; so there was a great deal of secret activity and the ladies of her intimate bedchamber were asked some searching questions.
The negotiations with France began. The Duc d'Anjou had become Henri III and his younger brother who, as the Duc d'Alencon, had once been the Queen's suitor, had taken the title of Duc d'Anjou from his brother, who now had the greater one of King of France. The Duc was still unmarried and no doubt his mother, Catherine de' Medici, felt that a share in the crown of England would be a great advantage to her son and to France.
When he had plied his suit previously, Elizabeth had been thirty-nine and he seventeen and the difference in their ages had not displeased her. Would it do so now that the Duc was more mature and—I had heard—debauched—and she perhaps felt the need for a little haste?
It always amazed me to see the excitement talk of marriage could arouse in her. It was an extraordinary side of her character that the fact that this little Frenchman, with the unsavory reputation and far from prepossessing appearance, who was considering marrying her—and she could have had many of the greatest princes in Europe or the most handsome man in England whom she loved—should have aroused such delight in her. She was as frivolous as a young girl, and indeed she acted like one. She became even more coquettish and demanded outrageous compliments about her appearance, talking of gowns and ruffs and ribbons as though they were matters of state. If one did not know her for the wily diplomat, the shrewd ruler, that she was, it would have seemed that the foolish creature was unworthy of her crown.
I had tried to understand her attitude. In my heart I knew she had no more intention of marrying Anjou than she had any other suitor. The only one she had ever seriously considered marrying was Robert Dudley. But she was fascinated by the subject of marriage; she may haveimagined herself united with a man—with Robert, I supposed—but it had to be a fantasy; she would never face the reality. Somewhere in the dark recesses of her mind was this bogey of marriage. Perhaps this was because her mother, demanding it, had paid for it with her life. I would never really understand. It was like a child who is terrified of the dark and yet asks for bloodcurdling stories about it and listens fascinated, begging for more.
I wanted to see Robert to tell him that I was with child, for I was certain of it. If he had really meant that we should marry, now was the time to prove it. I could not stay at Court when my pregnancy was obvious. The Queen had sharp eyes and I believed that recently she had watched me even more closely.
However the negotiations for the French marriage took her mind off those about her. Although those of us who knew her well were sure she had no intention of marrying the Duc, there was a growing feeling in the country about the proposed marriage, and those who did not have to be so careful of what they said were hinting that she should stop deceiving herself. There could be no issue and the marriage would mean putting power in the hands of the hated French.
But of course she could be unpredictable and none could be absolutely certain of what she would do; and there was an opinion that if she really had decided to marry at last, it would be better for the country and herself to take an Englishman and one of whom she was fond. Everyone knew who that was and that she had proved her true feelings for him over many years; and since he was the most powerful man in England already, if he were raised to be husband of the Queen, it could not be so very different.
Astley, one of the gentlemen of the bedchamber, even went so far as to remind her that Leicester was unmarried. It can be imagined what apprehension this caused me, but the Queen's reply delighted me. She was very angry and I knew it was because she thought that this courtship from which she intended to extract the maximum enjoyment was going to be snatched from her.
She shouted so that many of us heard, not only in the Presence Chamber but beyond: "Would it not be unlike myself and unmindful of my royal Majesty to prefer my servant, whom I myself have raised, before the greatest princes in Christendom."
What an insult to Robert! His pride would be deeply wounded. I wanted to be with him when he heard what the Queen had said, because it would show him that he had no hope of marrying her after all.
I sent word to him that I must see him as I had urgent news for him.
He came to Durham House and as the Queen was busy with the marriage negotiations he was freer than he usually was.
He embraced me with no lessening of his fervor and I said to him: "I am with your child, Robert, and something must be done about it."
He nodded, and I went on: "It will soon be obvious and then there will be difficulties. I have the Queen's permission to retire from the Court because I am concerned about the children. I also pleaded sickness. If we are ever going to be married, the time is now. The Queen won't have you. She has stated that clearly enough, and if she won't, then she can raise no objections to your marrying someone else."