"Take it," said Philip in words which have become immortalized. "Thy necessity is greater than mine."
He was carried to Leicester's barge and taken down to Arnhem and lodged in a house there.
I called on his wife, Frances, and found her, although heavily pregnant, preparing to leave. She said she must go to him, for he would need careful nursing.
"In your condition, you are unfit," I told her; but she would not listen, and her father said that since she was of such a determined mind he would not stop her.
So Frances went to Arnhem. Poor girl, her life had not been such a happy one. She must have loved him, though. Who could help loving Philip Sidney? Perhaps Frances knew that the love poems he wrote to my daughter Penelope were not to be taken as a slight to herself. There were not many women who would have accepted such a situation but Frances was an unusual woman.
Philip suffered acute agony for twenty-six days before he died. I knew his death would be a great blow to Robert, who had looked upon him as a son. His gifts, his charm, everything about Philip had been of such a nature to win admiration, and he was not one to inspire envy as men such as Robert, Heneage, Hatton and Raleigh did, for Philip was not ambitious. He was a man possessed of rare qualities.
I heard that the Queen's grief was intense. She had lost her dear friend Mary Sidney, whom she had always loved, and now Philip, whom she had so much admired, was dead.
The Queen hated war. She declared it to be senseless and to bring no good to any. All her reign she had sought to elude it, and now she was thrown into depression because of the loss of her dear friends and the ever more closely encroaching threat from Spain, which this rash and foolish adventure in the Netherlands had done nothing to ward off.
Philip's body was embalmed and he was brought home on a ship the sails of which were black and which was therefore called the Black Pinnance; and in the following February there was a memorial service for him in St. Paul's Cathedral.
Poor Frances had already been delivered of a stillborn child, which perhaps was to be expected after all she had endured.
Leicester came back to England, for the winter was no time for military campaigns, and with him came my son Essex.
First Leicester went to Court. There would have been trouble if he had not, and his position was precarious. I could imagine his misgivings when he presented himself to his royal mistress. Essex came to me. He was very upset by the death of Philip Sidney, and he wept as he told me that he had been at his deathbed.
"A nobler man never lived," he cried, "and now he is dead. He was pleased that the Earl of Leicester was with him. There was a deep love between those two, and my stepfather was in great grief at his passing. Philip left me his best sword. I shall treasure it always and hope I shall be worthy of it."
He had seen poor Frances Sidney—a brave woman, he said, for she had been in no fit condition to cross the sea. He would do all he could to help her, for that was what Philip would have wished.
After reporting to the Queen, Leicester came to me. The latest adventure had aged him, and I was shocked by his appearance. He had had a return of the gout and was weighed down with depression by the manner in which the adventure had turned sour.
He talked to me earnestly: "God be praised the Queen has not withdrawn her favor from me. When I came to her and knelt, she made me rise and she looked at me earnestly with tears in her eyes. She saw that I had suffered much, and she said that I had been a traitor to her. But what hurt her most was that I had been a traitor to myself, for I had wantonly ignored my health when I knew that the care of that was the first command she gave me. Then I knew that everything was forgiven."
I looked at him—this poor parody of the once glorious Leicester, and I was amazed at the woman. He had defied her and believed he had found a way to wear a crown in the Netherlands which would have meant deserting her and, greatest blow of all, had planned to send for me to share it with him. Yet she forgave him.
By God's truth, I said to myself, she loves him. Indeed she does.
Victorious England
Now for your person, being the most sacred and dainty thing we have in this world to care for, a man must tremble when he thinks of it; specially finding Your Majesty to have that princely courage, to transport yourself to the utmost confines of your realm to meet your enemies and defend your subjects. I cannot, most dear Queen, consent to that; for upon your well doing consists all the safety of your whole kingdom; and therefore preserve that above all.
Her presence and her words fortified the courage of the captains and soldier beyond belief.
The last episode of the tragic story of Mary of Scotland was about to break. She was imprisoned at that time at our own home of Chartley, which now belonged to my son, Essex. He had been very reluctant to allow it to be used as a prison for the Queen, and had protested that it was too small and inconvenient. However, his objections had been overruled, and in those chambers, so well known to me and my family, where I had played merry games with my children, the last dramatic scenes of the Scottish Queen's life took place. There she had become involved in the Babington Plot, which was to lead to her destruction; and the next phase of her sad journey was to the fateful castle of Fotheringay.
The entire country was talking of it—how those conspirators had met, how letters had passed between them, how the Queen of Scots was deeply involved in a plot, and on this occasion she was incriminated without doubt. Walsingham had all the evidence in his hands, and Mary was found guilty of trying to bring about the murder of Queen Elizabeth for the purpose of taking her place on the throne.
But even with the evidence before her, Elizabeth was reluctant to sign the death warrant.
Leicester was impatient with her, and I reminded him that not so long ago he had thought of making terms with the Queen of Scots when he thought there was a possibility of Elizabeth's dying and her coming to the throne.
He looked at me in amazement. He could not understand my lack of understanding of political expediency. Previously I should have been with him in what he suggested. Oh yes, indeed I was out of love.
"If she does not take care," he cried vehemently, "there will be an attempt to rescue Mary and it may succeed."
"You would not then be in an enviable position, my lord," I commented wryly. "I believe Her Majesty of Scotland is very fond of lapdogs, but she likes to choose her own, and would I am sure have no house room for those who once pleased the Queen of England."
"What has happened to you, Lettice?" he asked, bewildered.
I retorted: "I have become a neglected wife."
"You know full well there is only one reason why I cannot be with you."
"I know full well," I replied.
"Then enough. Let us ponder on serious matters."
But what was serious to him might not have been to me. That did not occur to him.
The people were restive, and still the Queen played that game of prevarication which she had practiced all her life. Often it had worked for her. But now her loyal subjects wanted to know when they could rejoice in the shedding of the Catholic Queen's blood.