How the hearts of your people will be galled, if not aliened, when they shall see you take a husband, a Frenchman and a papist, in whom the very common people know this, that he is the son of the Jezabel of our age—that his brother made oblation of his own sister's marriage, the easier to make massacre of our brethren in religion... .
He was referring to Catherine de' Medici, who was known throughout France as Queen Jezabel, so hated was she; and to the Massacre of the St. Bartholomew, which had taken place when Paris was full of Huguenots for the marriage of Anjou's sister Marguerite to Huguenot Henri of Navarre.
As long as he is Monsieur in might, and a papist in profession, he neither can nor will greatly shield you, and if he grow to be king, his defence will be like that of Ajax's shield, which rather weighed down than defended, those that bare it.
The letter was delivered and we waited at Penshurst with trepidation.
However, another incident occurred which no doubt made Philip's letter less significant than it might have been.
John Stubbs flared into prominence.
Stubbs was a Puritan who had graduated from Cambridge and took an interest in literary pursuits. His hatred of Catholicism had led him into danger. He was so violently opposed to the French marriage that he published a pamphlet entitled: "The Discoverie of a gaping gulf whereinto England is like to be Swallowed by another French marriage, if the Lord forbid not the Banes by letting Her Majestie see the sin and punishment thereof."
There was nothing in the pamphlet disloyal to the Queen, whose humble servant Stubbs declared himself to be, but when I saw a copy of it I knew that it would infuriate her—not for its political and religious views but because John Stubbs had pointed out that the Queen's age would prevent the marriage's being fruitful.
So enraged was the Queen—as I had guessed—that she ordered the pamphlet to be suppressed and the men involved—the writer Stubbs and the publisher and printer—to be tried at Westminster. The three men were sentenced to have their right hands cut off, and although the printer was later pardoned and the cruel sentences carried out on the other two, it was Stubbs who distinguished himself by speaking to the assembled crowd and telling them that the loss of his hand would in no way change his loyalty to the Queen. Then the right hands of both men were cut off by a blow—from a butcher's knife with a mallet—struck through the wrist. As Stubbs's right hand fell off, he lifted his left and cried: "God save the Queen!" before he fell down in a faint.
That scene, when reported to her, must have shaken her; and, although at the time, I sometimes marveled with the rest at her seeming folly, when I look back I see the devious purpose of it.
While she dallied with Anjou—and she did so for a year or two —she was in fact playing a game of politics with Philip of Spain, whom she greatly feared; and it was to be seen with good reason. What she wanted most was to avoid an alliance between her two enemies, and how could France ally herself with Spain when one of her sons was about to become the consort of the Queen of England.
It was clever politics and those men about her could not see it until later; but then hindsight makes so much clear.
Moreover, during that time when she dallied with her Frog Prince and earned certain unpopularity with her people, she was sowing discord between the King of France and his brother; she was planning already—as was proved later—to send the erstwhile Protestant Prince to Holland, there to fight the battle against Spain for her.
This was for later. In the meantime she flirted and coquetted with the little Prince and neither he nor her courtiers and ministers understood her motive just then.
It was a wonderful day for Robert and me when our son was born. We called him Robert and made great plans for him.
I was contented for a while just to be with him, and I was delighted when I heard that Douglass Sheffield had married Sir Edward Stafford, who was the Queen's ambassador in Paris. It was Edward Stafford who had carried out the negotiations for the proposed marriage between Elizabeth and Anjou and his handling of these matters had won the Queen's approval.
He had for some time been in love with Douglass, but her insistence that a marriage had taken place between her and Leicester had made it impossible for them to marry. Now that my marriage with Robert was common knowledge, Douglass—acting in a manner which was typical of her—married Edward Stafford, thereby tacitly admitting that there could never have been a binding marriage between herself and Robert.
This was deeply gratifying, and as I sat with my baby in my lap I promised myself that all would be well and in due course I should even regain the Queen's favor.
. I wondered what Elizabeth would feel when she knew that Robert and I had a son, for I was sure that she longed for a son even more than she did for a husband.
I heard from friends at Court that she had received the news in silence, which had been followed by a bout of ill temper, so I guessed the effect it had had on her; but it was a shock to learn of what action she intended to take.
It was Sussex again—that harbinger of ill tidings—who brought the news to us.
"I fear there is trouble ahead," he told Robert, not without some satisfaction. "The Queen is asking questions about Douglass Sheffield. It has come to her ears that she has a son named Robert Dudley and that she declared he was the legitimate son of the Earl of Leicester."
"If that were so," I demanded, "how can she call herself the wife of Sir Edward Stafford?"
"The Queen declares it is a mystery which she is now determined to clear up. She says that Douglass is the daughter of a great house and she cannot allow it to be said that she has committed bigamy in her marriage with her ambassador."
Robert said firmly: "There was on my part no marriage with Douglass Sheffield."
"The Queen thinks it maybe otherwise and she is determined to have the matter sifted for the truth."
"She may sift but she will find nothing."
Was he braving it out? I was not sure. He certainly seemed shaken.
"Her Majesty says that she is of the mind that there was such a marriage, in which case your present marriage is none at all. She says that if indeed you married Douglass Sheffield, you will live with her as your wife or rot in the Tower."
I knew what this meant. If it were possible she was going to wrest my triumph from me. She wanted to prove that my marriage was no marriage and my son a bastard.
Oh, those were anxious days for me. Even now I tremble with rage when I recall them. Robert assured me that she could not prove that a marriage had taken place, for it had not, but I could not entirely believe him. I knew him well and that the overweening emotion of his life was ambition; but he was more virile than most men and when he desired a woman that desire could, temporarily, override ambition. Douglass was the sort of woman who would cling to her virtue—although she had become his mistress —and it may have been because of the child she was to have that she had successfully pleaded with him to marry her.
But now we had a son—our own young Robert—and I told myself that his father, who was adept at removing obstacles from his path, would surely be able to eliminate evidence of a marriage, if such there had been. No son of mine should be branded a bastard. I would not stand aside and allow the Queen that satisfaction. I was going to confound her malice, prove her wrong and let this be another victory for her She-Wolf.
Sussex informed us that the Queen had commissioned him to get to the truth of the matter. She was determined to know whether, in fact, a marriage had taken place. We had a good ally in Sir Edward Stafford, who was deeply enamored of Douglass and was as earnestly concerned in proving there had been no marriage between Douglass and Robert as we were.