After the death of Robert I had found myself looking anxiously at my dear ministers and wondering morbidly who would be the next to leave me. I sometimes wondered whether I should ever find any to replace them. No one could take Robert's place, of course, but that was different. Robert was unique. But Burghley, Walsingham, Heneage, Hatton … men like that, who had served me well, were exceptional men. Each had his very special qualities and none appreciated more than I their rarity.
I was really worried about Walsingham. He must be sixty or near it and he had never been robust; he had worked every hour of the day and had never spared himself. The spy system he had created was the finest in Europe. We might never have beaten the Spanish armada if we had not been kept so well informed of its movements and of what was going on in the secret conclaves of diplomatic Spain. He had had his men in every conceivable place and they had been of inestimable value to us.
And now poor Walsingham was failing. All through the year he had been unwell, although he had continued to keep in close touch with his spies in every country in Europe.
So it was a very great blow to me when he died that April at his home in Seething Lane.
Another dear friend and able minister gone! This was the tragedy of growing old when one's friends went one by one like leaves falling from trees at the approach of winter.
One was left wondering: Who next?
He left a note in his will that he was to be buried without cost or ceremony because he was deeply in debt and had little to leave. He had spent his fortune lavishly on his spy organization, for he had wished to extend it beyond what the state was prepared to give. And thus he had little to leave to his own family.
They buried him late at night in Paul's church and, as he had wished, without ceremony.
I shut myself away to mourn. I wished that I had done more for him when he was alive. I should have questioned him about his financial position. It seemed churlish to have allowed him to spend his fortune on the welfare of the state. But that was how he would have it. There could never be a greater patriot.
I would keep an eye on his daughter Frances.
She was a good quiet girl and I was fond of her for her own sake as well as her father's. I had thought her an excellent wife for Philip Sidney, for she was a beautiful, gentle girl, and I was pleased that he should marry her and put that odious Penelope Rich out of his mind.
Frances Walsingham had a daughter by Sidney—she must have been about seven years old at this time—a pleasant child to whom I had acted as godmother. And when Philip had been wounded in battle, Frances, again pregnant, had gone out to nurse him. Unfortunately he had died and she, poor soul, had lost the child she was carrying and come near to death herself.
Since then she had lived quietly with her mother and I thought I should bring her to Court and perhaps find a husband for her. I owed that to Walsingham since his widow and daughter had very little money.
Not long after Frances had come to Court I noticed something about her which aroused my interest. At first I could not believe it. She was such a virtuous girl, and nothing had been said of any suitor for her hand. I should have been the first to know if any had honorable intentions toward her. Surely Frances was not the sort to indulge in immoral relations outside marriage. It was unthinkable. What would my poor Moor have had to say to that!
I decided I would watch her. It might be that she suffered from some minor ailment. Poor girl, she had gone through a good deal after the birth of that stillborn baby, and had been very ill. Perhaps it was the result of all the tragedy that I was seeing now.
But there came a time when I believed my suspicions to be correct.
I called her to me and said: “Frances, does anything ail you?”
“No, Your Majesty,” she answered promptly.
I said: “Come here.”
She came wonderingly and I prodded her in the stomach.
“I have for some time wondered,” I said, “if you were carrying something which a virtuous widow would not be expected to.”
Frances was so taken aback that she flushed scarlet.
“So,” I cried, “I was right. You had better explain yourself, my lady.”
Frances held her head high and looked defiant.
I slapped her face. I was so angry with her. I had misjudged her. I had thought her a good, quiet, virtuous widow and when any of those about me indulged in furtive love affairs I always felt enraged. Perhaps it was because of my own virgin state. I was not sure. I certainly did not wish it to be otherwise… and yet there was this anger at the indulgence of others.
I said impatiently: “Come, come. Who is the man?”
Frances astonished me then, for she held her head even higher and said: “My husband.”
“Your husband!” Another of those secret marriages which I deplored! How dared they go behind my back and marry without my consent? If they wished to marry was I not the first to be told?
“Why was my permission not asked for this marriage?” I demanded.
Frances held her head still higher, her beautiful face showing a rare defiance as she replied: “I could not think that I was of sufficient importance to warrant informing Your Majesty.”
“Not of sufficient importance! Did I not love your father! Did he not enjoy my highest regard? Have I not always looked to you for his sake? Not of sufficient importance indeed!”
I slapped her again. She took a few paces back and as I saw the red mark on her cheek where I had struck her, my anger increased.
I took her by the arm and shook her.
“Your father married you in secret to Philip Sidney. I berated him strongly for such an act and he made like excuse. Not important enough to warrant my attention! Did you know that I scolded him and told him he showed scant gratitude to me to tell me I thought him of no importance. Have I not looked to you since he died? I would have found a suitable marriage for you. Tell me now who is this man who has got you with child? I will not have this philandering at my Court.”
She would not answer and I was beginning to feel uneasy.
I cried: “I grow impatient. His name! Come girl, do you want me to force you to talk?”
She fell to her knees and buried her face in my skirts. I was becoming quite sorry for her. She was really distressed, and the girl had had such a bad time with Sidney writing all those love poems to Penelope Rich while he was married to her, and then dying at Zutphen after her going out to nurse him and losing the child she was carrying. Yes, I was sorry for her. Perhaps she had been lonely. Well, I would make this knave marry her—if he were not already married—and the marriage should take place before the child was born.
“Are you going to tell me, Frances?” I said more gently.
She raised her agonized eyes to my face and nodded.
“Well?” I prompted.
She began to talk incoherently. “We met in the Netherlands…He was with the army…He was there with Philip…We have known each other well…We loved…We… married…”
“Who?” I demanded.
There was a pause of a second or two; then she said in a voice I could scarcely hear: “My lord Essex.”
“Essex!” I thundered.
She rose to her feet and took a few paces away from me, and without asking permission she turned and ran as fast as she could from my presence.
Essex! I thought. My Essex! And he had philandered with this girl, Walsingham's daughter! No, he had married her. He had dared to do that without telling me … without asking my permission. Oh, the traitor! The deceiver! All the time he had been showing me how much he adored me, he had been making love with this girl… even marrying her!