With great oaths and referring to the Countess of Leicester as "the She Wolf", the Queen declared there should be "no more courts under her obeisance than her own and would revoke you from thence with all speed."
The circulation of Leicester's Commonwealth could not fail to have its effect, even on me. I began to wonder how much of it was true and to look at my husband through fresh eyes. It was indeed a strange coincidence that the people who had stood in his way had been removed at remarkably convenient moments. He was, of course, rarely on the scene of the crime, but then he had his spies and servants everywhere. I had always known that.
I was overcome by uneasiness. How much did I know of my husband? If there was even some truth in what I was reading, I had to admit my position must be a precarious one. What if the Queen after all decided she might marry him, what would he do? Would he find the prospect irresistible? Should I be found at the bottom of a staircase with a broken neck? It seemed a logical outcome.
I considered us all—the three who formed this unholy trio. We were all complicated people, and none of us overscrupulous. Both Robert and Elizabeth had lived dangerously all their lives. Elizabeth's mother and Robert's father had both died violent deaths on the scaffold, and they themselves had come within a few paces of a similar fate. As for myself, I had been required by the Queen to live more in the shadows; but I was married to a man who, according to Leicester's Commonwealth, wielded the poison cup and other lethal weapons without compunction. The mystery of Amy Robsart would never be cleared; all that was known was that she died at a time when her death could have brought Robert's elevation to the side of the Queen. I thought of Douglass Sheffield, who had at one time become an embarrassment to him. Her nails had started to disintegrate and her hair to fall out. She had not died, but had apparently come near to it. What did we know of the dangers through which she had passed? At least she was now the most contented of wives, for Edward Stafford adored her.
I was growing more and more dissatisfied. It seemed to me that the Queen would never relent towards me. If she had denied her presence to Robert, I should have been somewhat reconciled. He was rich, and even if he had had no more favors from the Queen, we could have lived in great style at Kenilworth, Wanstead, Cornbury, Leicester House—or one of his manors—and I should have been romantically regarded as the woman for whom he considered the Queen's favor well lost.
But it was not so—and, being determined to punish me, she took a malicious delight in keeping him from my side. For what? For being preferred by him! She was anxious to show me—and the world—that he would desert me any day for her. And he did.
On his brief visits we made passionate love, but I wondered if he realized that even our old ardor was changing for me. I wondered if Elizabeth noticed the change in him. A man who had lived as Robert had could not expect to escape unscathed. He had lived too richly, indulged himself too freely in what people call the good things of life, and the result was periodic visits to Buxton, where he took the waters and lived on simpler fare and hoped his gout would subside. Being so tall, he was still an impressive figure, and the aura, which had made him stand out like a prince in a crowd, remained. He was a man who created his own destiny. The legends which were attached to him would always make people speak his name with awe. He remained the most discussed man in the country, a role he thoroughly enjoyed and sought. The Queen's devotion to him, which had lasted for nearly a lifetime, would never be forgotten. But he was an aging figure now, and when I saw him after absences I was always a little shocked by his appearance.
I took great care of myself, determined to appear young as long as I could. Being denied the Court, I had time to experiment with herbs and lotions which kept my skin beautiful. I bathed in milk; I made special washes for my hair which helped to keep its shining color. I used paint and powder with a skill unrivaled by the Queen's women, and so I preserved a youthful look which denied my years. I thought of Elizabeth—older than I—and I took a distinct pleasure in studying myself in my mirror and examining my complexion, which appeared—aided by those adjuncts to beauty which I could apply with such skill—as fresh as a young girl's.
Robert always declared himself astonished when he saw me after being away for some time. "You have not changed since the day I first saw you," he said. An exaggeration but a welcome one; yet I did know that I had preserved a certain flowerlike freshness, which gave me a look of innocence so ill matched by my nature that it may have been this contrast which set me apart and was the secret of my appeal to men. In any case I was kept aware of my attractions on which Robert never failed to comment. He often compared our Vixen with his Lamb—to the detriment of the former course and this he did to put me in a good mood. He did not want the time we spent together wasted in recriminations. He desperately hoped that we should have another child; but I was not eager for that. I would never really get over the loss of my little Robert, which may sound false in a woman of my nature, but is nevertheless true. That I was selfish, I knew, sensual, looking for admiration, seeking pleasure. ... I recognized all this. I had learned too that I was not overscrupulous in the manner in which I reached my desires—but in spite of this I was a good mother. I take pride in that even now. All my children loved me. To Penelope and Dorothy I was like a sister, and they confided their matrimonial secrets to me. Not that Dorothy had trials at this time; she was blissfully happy in her runaway match. It was different with Penelope. She told me in detail of the sadistic habits of Lord Rich, the husband she had never wanted, of his taunts because of Philip Sidney's passion for her, and of the lurid life of their bedchamber. Such was her nature—so similar to mine —that she was not entirely cast down by all this. Life was exciting to her: the long battles with her husband; the sublime devotion of Philip Sidney (I often wondered what his wife, Frances, thought of that); and the constant looking forward to what adventures the day would bring. So I had my girls.
As for my boys, I saw Robert, the Earl of Essex, now and then. I insisted because I could not endure the separation. He was living in his house at Llanfydd in Pembrokeshire, which I protested was too far away. He had grown into a very handsome young man. His temper was a little uncertain and, I had to admit, that there was a definite waywardness, an arrogance in his nature; but the mother in me quickly protested that this was overshadowed by his perfect manners and an innate courtesy which was very appealing. He was tall and slender, and I adored him.
I urged him to join the family but he shook his head and a stubborn look I well knew came into his eyes.
"Nay, dearest Mother," he said, "I was not meant to be a courtier."
"You look like one, my darling."
"Appearances often lie. Your husband would want me to go to Court, I believe, and I am happy in the country. You should come to me, Mother. We two were not meant to be apart. Your husband is, I hear, often in close attendance on the Queen, so he perhaps would not miss you."
I noticed the contemptuous curve of his lips. He was one who had great difficulty in concealing his feelings. He was not pleased by my marriage. I sometimes thought he resented Leicester because he knew how much I cared for him, and he wanted all my affection bestowed on him. And of course hearing how Leicester neglected me for the Queen would make him angry too. I knew my son.
Young Walter idealized his brother Robert and spent as much time as he could in his company. Walter was a dear boy—a pale shadow of Essex, I always thought. I loved him, but the feeling I had for any of my children could not approach the intensity of that I felt for Essex.