He had seen me with Christopher. I cannot say what it was. Perhaps the manner in which we looked at each other. It may have been that our hands had touched. He may have seen something kindle between us—or he could have heard whispers. There were always enemies to carry tales about us—of me no less than of him.
In our bedchamber at Wanstead he said to me: "You have a fondness for my Master of Horse."
I was not sure then what he knew, and to gain time I said: "Oh ... Christopher Blount?"
"Who else? Have you a fancy for each other?"
"Christopher Blount," I repeated, feeling my way. "He is very good with horses... ."
"And women, it seems."
"Is that so? You would have heard that his brother and Essex fought their duel. It was over a woman. A queen from the chessboard, in gold and enamel."
"I am not speaking of his brother, but of him. You had better admit, for I know."
"What do you know?"
"That he is your lover."
I shrugged my shoulders and retorted that if he admired me and showed it, was I to blame?
"If you let him into your bed, you are."
"You have been listening to tales."
"Which I believe to be true."
His grip was painful on my wrist, but I did not flinch. I faced him defiantly. "My lord, should you not look to your own life before you peer too closely into mine?"
"You are my wife," he said. "What you do on my bed is my business."
"And what you do in the beds of others mine!"
"Oh come," he said. "Let us not diverge from the truth. I am away ... in attendance on the Queen."
"Your good kind mistress ..."
"The mistress of us all."
"But in one particular case ... yours."
"You know there has never been that kind of intimacy between us."
"Arthur Dudley could tell another story."
"He could tell many lies," he retorted, "and when he says he is my son and Elizabeth's that is the greatest lie he ever told."
"It seems to be believed."
He threw me from him in his rage. "Do not evade the matter. You and Blount are lovers. Are you? Are you?"
"I am a neglected wife," I began.
"You have answered." His eyes narrowed. "Think not that I shall forget this. Think not that you can betray me with impunity. I shall make you answer for this insult... you and him."
"I have answered already for marrying you. The Queen has never once received me since."
"You call that payment! You will discover a great deal."
He stood before me—big and menacing, the most powerful man in the country. Words from Leicester's Commonwealth danced before my eyes. Murderer. Poisoner. Was this true? I thought of the people who had died at a time convenient to him. Was it merely a coincidence?
He had loved me. At one time I had meant a great deal to him. Perhaps I still did. He had come to me when he could; we had been well matched physically; but I had grown out of love with him.
Now he knew that I had a lover. Whether he wanted me still, I did not know. He was sick and feeling his age. I think at this time he only wanted to rest, but the hatred was there when he faced me. He would never forgive me for taking a lover.
I believed then that during those absences from home he had not been unfaithful. He had been in attendance on the Queen since his return from the Netherlands and I remembered that when he had been there he had wanted me beside him, decked out as his Queen.
Yes, I had had some power over him, for he had wanted me; he needed me; he would have been a uxorious husband if the Queen had allowed him to be.
And now I had betrayed him. I had taken a lover and one in what he would consider a menial post in his household. He would not allow any to insult him and escape. Of one thing I was certain. There would be revenge.
I wondered whether I should warn Christopher. No, he would show his fear. He must not know. I understood Leicester as Christopher never could. I would know how to act, I promised myself.
He said slowly: "I gave up everything for you."
"Douglass Sheffield, you mean?" I asked, determined to hide the fear I was beginning to feel by a show of flippancy.
"You know she meant little to me. I married you and braved the Queen's wrath."
"That was directed against me. It was not you who had to brave it."
"How could I be sure what would happen to me? Yet I married you."
"My father forced you to make it legal, remember?"
"I wanted to marry you. I loved no one as I loved you."
"And then you proceeded to desert me."
"Only for the Queen."
I laughed at that. "There were three of us, Robert—two women and one man. It makes no difference that one was a queen."
"It makes all the difference. I was not her lover."
"She did not let you enter her bed. I know that. But you were her lover, nonetheless, and she your mistress. Therefore do not stand in judgment on others."
He took me by the shoulders; his eyes blazed and I thought he was going to kill me. There was violence in his eyes. I wished I could see what else. He was making plans, I knew.
He said suddenly: "We shall be leaving tomorrow."
"We ... ?" I stammered.
"You and I and your paramour among others."
"Where shall we go?"
A wry smile touched his lips. "To Kenilworth," he said.
"I thought you were going to take the baths."
"Later," he said. "First to Kenilworth."
"Why do you not go straight to the baths? That was what your mistress ordered you to do. I can tell you, you look sick ... sick unto death."
"I feel so," he answered. "But first I would go to Kenilworth with you."
Then he left me.
I was afraid. I had seen the look in his eyes when he had said Kenilworth. Why Kenilworth? The place where we had met and loved wildly, where we had had our secret meetings, where he had made up his mind that however he angered the Queen he must marry me.
"Kenilworth," he had said, with a cruel smile about his mouth; and I knew some dark plan was in his mind. What would he do to me at Kenilworth?
I went to bed and dreamed of Amy Robsart. I was lying in a bed and saw someone lurking in the shadows of the room ... men who began to creep silently towards the bed. It was as though voices were whispering to me: "Cumnor Place . . Kenilworth ..."
I awoke, trembling with fear, and all my senses told me that Robert was planning some terrible revenge.
The next day we left for Kenilworth. I rode beside my husband and, glancing sideways at him, I noticed the deathly pallor of his skin beneath the network of red veins on his cheeks. His elegant ruff, his velvet doublet, his cap with the curling feather could not hide the change in him. There was no doubt that he was a very sick man. He was approaching sixty and he had lived dangerously; he had denied himself very little of what the world calls the good things of life. It was now apparent.
I said: "My lord, we should go to Buxton without delay, for it would seem you are in need of the beneficial baths."
He answered abruptly: "We are going to Kenilworth."