My darling Essex! How I loved him! How proud I was of him! And how I feared for him!
It was Penelope who drew my attention to his increasing devotion to Frances Sidney. Frances was a very beautiful girl; her darkness inherited from her father, whom the Queen had called her Moor, was arresting; but because she was quiet she always seemed a little apart from the rest of the young who congregated around my table.
Penelope said that Frances appealed to Essex because she was so different from him.
"Do you think he intends to marry her?" I asked.
"It would not surprise me."
"She is older than he is—a widow with a daughter."
"He has always felt protective towards her since Philip died. She is calm and unobtrusive. She would not attempt to interfere with what he planned. I think he would like that."
"My dear Penelope, there is not a man in England who can have a brighter future than your brother. He could marry into one of the greatest and richest families in the land. He cannot choose Walsingham's daughter."
"My dear Mother," retorted Penelope, "it is not our choice but his."
She was right, but I could not believe it. Sir Francis Walsingham wielded a great deal of power in the country; he was one of the Queen's most able ministers, but she had never made him one of her real favorites; he was in the category which was acceptable for talent. The Queen would have been the first to admit that he had served her well. He had set up one of the finest spy systems in the world, and a great deal of this he had paid for out of his own resources. He it was who had been the prime mover in bringing the members of the Babington conspiracy to justice, which had resulted in the execution of Mary Queen of Scots. He was a man of great honesty and integrity, but he had certainly not amassed a fortune, nor had he gained great honors. But this Essex swept aside. He had decided to marry Frances Sidney.
Penelope and I with Christopher and Charles Blount talked to him, and Charles asked what he thought the Queen would say.
"I know not," cried Essex. "Neither would her disapproval deter me."
"It could result in your banishment from Court," Christopher reminded him.
"Good Christopher," boasted Essex, "do you think I do not know how to manage the Queen?"
"Pray do not even mention such a thing," begged Charles. "If such words were carried to the Queen ..."
"We are all friends here," retorted Essex. "Leicester married, and she forgave him."
"But not his wife," I reminded him bitterly.
"Had I been Leicester I should have refused to go to Court without my wife."
"Had you been Leicester, my son, he would never have retained the Queen's favor throughout his life. I do beg of you, take care. Leicester was to her what no man ever was or will be, yet he knew he had to walk with care."
"I am to her what no man ever was or shall be. You will see."
Of course he was young and arrogant, and she had made much of him. I wondered whether he would ever begin to learn.
The young people admired him. They lacked my experience and approved of his boldness, and once again I did not wish to seem old and unadventurous, so I was silent.
Perhaps our opposition to the match made Essex all the more determined.
He came to see me on his return from Seething Lane, where Sir Francis was living, and told me that he had won his approval for the match.
"The old man is very ill," said Essex, "and I think he cannot last long. He told me that he has little to leave Frances for his debts are many. He said he doubted there would be enough money to bury him with dignity, so much had he spent in the service of the Queen."
I knew Walsingham was right and I thought him a fool for doing so. Leicester had served the Queen and made a very profitable affair of it—yet he also had died in debt, and at this very time I was bemoaning the loss of certain treasures which had had to be sold to pay them.
The outcome was that my son and Walsingham's daughter— who was Philip Sidney's widow—were married secretly.
I was shocked when I called on Sir Francis to see how ill he was. He was delighted, though, by his daughter's marriage. He told me that he had been anxious about her future. Philip Sidney had left little and he had little to leave either. "To live in the Queen's service is a costly matter," he said.
Indeed he was right. When I think of what Leicester had spent on New Year's gifts to the Queen—the diamonds, the emeralds, the necklaces of lovers' knots—I thought it was small wonder that my treasures had to go to pay for them.
Poor Sir Francis died soon after that and he was buried secretly at midnight because a proper funeral would have been too expensive.
The Queen was sorry and mourned for him. "I shall miss my Moor," she said. "Aye, miss him sadly. He was a good servant to me and I did not always treat him kindly, but he knew well that my respect for him went deep, and I was not the ungrateful mistress I might sometimes have appeared to be. I hear there is very little left for his poor widow and his girls."
After that she took a little interest in Frances and made her sit and talk to her. This had a rather unfortunate sequel because Frances quickly became pregnant.
The Queen was very observant of her women; she seemed to have an extra sense where their romantic attachments were concerned.
Frances herself told me what happened.
The Queen never minced her words and it often seemed that she tried to remind people of her father Henry VIII by a certain masculine coarseness.
She prodded Frances in the stomach and demanded to know whether she carried anything there which a virtuous widow should not. Frances was not the most subtle of women and she immediately flushed scarlet, so that the Queen knew her suspicions were correct.
That extraordinary interest in the sexual activities of those about her, which could flare into sudden anger, bewildered many. She behaved as though the act of love fascinated her while it disgusted her.
Frances said she received a sharp nip in the arm with a demand to explain by whom she was pregnant.
For all her quietness, Frances had dignity; she lifted her head and said: "My husband."
"Your husband!" cried the Queen. "I do not recall anyone's asking my permission to marry you."
"Madam, I did not think I was of sufficient importance to make that necessary."
"You are the daughter of the Moor and I always had a regard for him. Now he is dead your welfare is more than ever my concern. He married you in secret to Philip Sidney and excused himself with talk of no importance! I rated him sharply then, and you knew it. And have I not kept you here beside me since he died!"
"Yes, Madam, you have been most gracious to me."
"So ... you thought fit to marry. Come. Tell me who he is."
Frances was terrified. She could only burst into tears at which the Queen's suspicions were aroused. Frances asked leave to retire that she might compose herself.
"You will remain," said the Queen. "Now tell me when you married, and I'll swear it was that the child you carry might be born in time. I tell you this: I will not have this lewd behavior in my Court. I do not treat this matter lightly." She then took Frances by the arm and shook her roughly, and when Frances fell to her knees she received a blow at the side of her face to remind her that she was withholding information which the Queen was demanding.
Frances was aware that sooner or later she would have to reveal her husband's name and that the Queen's fury would be great. She was old enough to remember what had happened when Leicester had married me.
Because of Frances's obvious fear, the Queen began to grow suspicious.
"Come, girl," she cried. "Who is your partner in this? Tell me, or I'll beat it out of you."
"Madam, we have long loved each other. Ever since my first husband was so cruelly wounded ..."