The Marriage Game: A Novel of Queen Elizabeth I

  “You are killing me,” he groaned one especially impassioned night, as he rolled on his back, panting as if he was in extremis. Moonlight streamed through the open lattice window, illuminating his noble profile. “Why can I not have you?”

  “You know very well,” Elizabeth teased, propping herself up on one elbow and planting delicate kisses on his cheek.

  “Listen to me, Bess!” he growled, grasping her hand. “I would be your husband. You have nothing to fear from me. You must see that.”

  “Only scandal, as you have a wife,” she said, tart.

  “But it will not be for long, and then I will be free.”

  Elizabeth was suddenly chilled. “Can you so easily contemplate the death of someone you once loved?” she whispered.

  “No—of course not. I may not love Amy as I did, but I feel sorry for her. I do not wish her dead. Seeing her so ill and frightened is a torment to me, for I cannot help her. But a man must have some comfort in his life. I never loved Amy as I love you, Bess. We are two of a kind, you and I, and there will come a day when I am free to wed again.”

  “I cannot be seen to be contemplating marriage with a married man.”

  “Then give me cause to hope.”

  Elizabeth was silent.

  “At least give me some high office of state,” Robert urged once again. “Your councillors hate me. They are envious and resentful. The court is full of talk about my being descended from traitors fleshed in conspiracy—I, who am utterly loyal, as you well know. Cecil is working hard to marry you to the Archduke, but mainly to spite me.”

  Elizabeth flared. “Robin, are you never satisfied? You control a great network of patronage. If people want to see me, they approach you—and I know it is at a price. Cecil tells me you do everything in your power to sabotage or undermine any marriage negotiations.”

  “Do you blame me?” Robert smoldered. “I loathe the idea of your marrying a Catholic, as should all true Englishmen! And if you take one of those pretty princes, I am finished.”

  “But I have not said I will take one of them.”

  “Nor have you said you will have me! Bess, you love me. You have said it, many times. You want me—despite what you say. And you need me.”

  “I need no man!” Elizabeth retorted angrily, getting up and smoothing down her gown. “And right now I need to sleep. Alone. Good night, Robin!”

  At Nonsuch, an exquisite fantasy of a hunting box built by Elizabeth’s father in the Italian style, Arundel welcomed his queen with a flourish. The tapestries and furnishings she had insisted on bringing from Hampton Court were already in place in the sumptuous rooms he had made ready for her, and he laid on a banquet with so many courses that it was three in the morning before she departed, yawning, to bed. There were masques, dances, and hunts for her pleasure, and, prominent in every one, Arundel himself, pompous, dazzling, and ridiculous in his expensive finery, paying her clumsy compliments and making excruciating declarations of his love. Elizabeth bore it all with good humor, but she reckoned that the magnificent set of silver plate he gave her as a farewell had been dearly bought.

  Evidently Pickering, strutting before her at every opportunity, thought so too, for he now seized every opportunity of disparaging Arundel, while paying Elizabeth the most extravagant attentions. Elizabeth caught Robert watching them, his face like thunder. She smiled at him sweetly as she sailed past on Pickering’s arm.

  Kat watched, darkly disapproving. Elizabeth had managed to avoid any confrontations with her—she was the Queen, after all, and above admonition now, surely—but one morning, as she was about to leave her bedchamber, she was astonished to see her old nurse fall creakily to her knees before her.

  “Madam, my sweet Bess, I implore you in God’s name to marry and put an end to these distressing rumors about you and Lord Robert,” the old woman pleaded, and there could be no doubting her sincerity. “I must tell you, in your own interests, that your behavior has occasioned much evil talk.”

  Elizabeth’s eyes flashed. She would not brook such presumption, even from one who was dear to her. “If I have showed myself gracious to Lord Robert, he has deserved it for his honorable nature and dealings. It is beyond me how anyone—you especially—could object to our friendship. I am always surrounded by my ladies …” She faltered as she saw her old nurse pursing her lips.

  “But you are not,” Kat challenged gently.

  “They are within earshot,” Elizabeth insisted, flushing, for she would have it her way, “and it would be obvious to them, and indeed to all, if there was ever anything dishonorable going on between us. But let me tell you this, Kat.” She was really cross now. “If I had ever had the will or inclination, or found pleasure in a dishonorable life, I do not know of anyone who could forbid me, even you. But I trust in God that no one will ever see me stoop so low.”

  Kat’s distress was painfully evident. She wrung her hands, almost weeping. “But the rumors are so damaging to you, Bess. If I speak out of turn it is only because of the love I bear you. You surely do not want to alienate your people, after making such a good beginning and receiving such demonstrations of their affection. There are factions forming here at court: those who hope for much by supporting Lord Robert; and those who work against him. Will you see your court, and mayhap your kingdom, so much divided?”

  Elizabeth shrugged, barely containing her impatience. “I commend you for your devotion, Kat. As for marrying, I cannot take a husband without weighing all the advantages and disadvantages. I would be a fool otherwise!”

  “In that case, should you not distance yourself from Lord Robert, and give these negotiations a chance to flourish?”

  “Kat, you are bold to speak thus, and you are not my mother to say yea or nay,” Elizabeth burst out, finding to her horror that she was near to tears. Mentioning her mother had made her think how wonderful it would be if Anne were alive and able to counsel and comfort her; and the thought of distancing herself from Robin had all but finished her. He was her joy, her comfort, her one fixed point in a maelstrom of shifting alliances. “Oh Kat, dear Kat, that was unfair. You have been as a mother to me, and seen me through my darkest hours. Just understand that I need to see Robin constantly, because in this world I have so much sorrow and tribulation, and so little joy.”

  “Hush, my lamb,” Kat soothed, rising and hastening to embrace her. “Forgive me if I spoke out of turn. What is all this sorrow and tribulation you speak of?”

  Elizabeth shuddered. There were times—and this was one of them—when she felt overwhelmed and isolated. She burst out, “Alas, to be a king and wear a crown is more glorious to them that see it than it is a pleasure to them that bear it! My enemies are many, and some wear a smiling face. I feel so insecure, so alone sometimes. My crown is a burden as well as an honor. I know there are many who would topple me if they could, and many who would rule me. That is one reason why I dare not marry, why I deny myself the solace of marriage. I am not as other women. I am the Queen. I intend to remain the Queen.” The outburst had been cathartic. She was composed now, sure again in her chosen course, aware that only in moments of weakness did she waver and begin to believe there might be another way.

  “Just be careful, sweeting,” Kat urged. “Only yesterday Baron Breuner was quizzing your ladies as to how often you were alone with Lord Robert. Of course they swore by all that is holy that you have never been forgetful of your honor, but it is clear that the baron sees Lord Robert as a threat to the Archduke’s chances of success. And you and I, Bess, know well how many times you have been private with him.”

  Elizabeth met her eyes. “As I have been closeted with Cecil, with Bacon, with Sussex and others, yet no one accuses me of dalliance with them.” She giggled at the thought of solemn, virtuously married Cecil rolling on the bed with her. “You need not worry about Baron Breuner, Kat. He has already raised the matter of Lord Robert with me; he asked me outright if I loved him. I told him I was so beset with my royal duties that I had not had tim
e to think of love.”

  In fact, she reflected after Kat had gone, reassured, into the outer chamber, she had of late thought of little else.

  Word came that Prince Erik had set off for England, all afire to woo the Queen, but was driven back to Sweden by storms.

  “God is protecting me,” Elizabeth declared thankfully to her council. “He does not intend for me to marry.”

  Cecil bridled. “Madam, my head is spinning from counting your suitors. Might I venture to suggest that you think of the needs of your kingdom and choose one of them?”

  “God has given me a sign, good Spirit,” Elizabeth said loftily. “And never fear, I always look to the needs of my kingdom, unfailingly.”

  Erik appeared undaunted by God’s disapproval. He put to sea again, only to be embroiled in a terrible storm that saw him once more washed up, battered but not defeated, on his native shore. Soon afterward a letter from him came for Elizabeth, having bested its scribe and crossed the waves. It made her mouth twitch.

  “Prince Erik writes that, although cruel Fortune has prevented him from coming by sea to claim me, he intends at the first opportunity to hasten through armies of foes to be by my side, as he is bound by an eternal love toward me.” She looked up at her councillors. “It seems, though, that matters of state are more of an obstacle than armies of foes. He cannot come just now, so he is sending his brother here in the hope of obtaining a favorable answer.”

  Just hours later Cecil came to inform Elizabeth that the Earl of Arran had arrived secretly in London. “I have privily lodged him in my house at Westminster,” he said. “We cannot have him getting caught up in the crush of suitors and hopeful ambassadors at court. That would never do, when you are supposed to be entertaining him only.” It was true, Elizabeth thought, things were getting rather crowded at court. She might start a harem, like the sultan!

  Two days later Arran was brought privately to see the Queen. She saw before her a mild-faced man of no special beauty and a somewhat awkward manner. It was hard to believe that the French regarded this vacuous specimen as a threat to Queen Mary, and certainly he was no great catch for the Queen of England. Even so, she would keep him dangling, for there was much she wanted of him.

  They talked—if it could be described thus—of the threats from Scotland and France. Arran was only half listening. He seemed to be intrigued by a bee that was buzzing at the window.

  “My lord,” Elizabeth tried again, “it is not just a threat to England. It is a threat to Protestants everywhere, and we must deal with it.”

  Buzz, buzz. Arran started and nodded. “I am at your ladyship’s disposal,” he said. Your ladyship? She bristled but let it go.

  “I want you to return to Scotland and lead the Protestant lords against the rule of the Queen Regent,” she told him, hoping to focus his attention. “They are eager for your coming. Together we can overthrow the Catholics in Scotland and trounce their alliance with the French. I have arranged for Thomas Randolph, our agent, to accompany you.” That was as well, for the earl might not find his way out of London otherwise.

  Arran bent and kissed her hand.

  “Madam, about my proposal,” he began, as if he had not heard a word she’d said.

  “We will talk about it later,” said Elizabeth firmly, but with a dazzling smile. The poor fool was not quite right in the head. She would get Randolph to pinion him in a corner and explain in words of one syllable what she wanted him to do, then she would pray that Arran’s concentration span was sufficient for him to understand and actually put the plan into action; but she did not hold out much hope of that. Marry him she would not. Five minutes in his company had been enough to convince her of that.

  “You are out of tune!” Elizabeth complained.

  “No, it is your ears that are out of tune!” Robert countered.

  She snatched the gittern from him and began strumming a melody on it, admiring the fine carving on its wooden panel and the elegantly fashioned sound holes. It sounded divine. Robert admitted defeat; like all her family, she had a gift for music.

  “Bravo!” he applauded. They were sitting close together on a window seat in the gallery of Windsor Castle, replete after a good day’s hunting in the August sunshine and a hearty repast in the banqueting pavilion. Everyone else was keeping a discreet distance.

  Elizabeth struck up a merry courante, but suddenly stopped, aware that Cecil was approaching, a sober presence amid the peacock colors of her courtiers.

  “Madam, I must speak with you,” he said, with the briefest of nods at Robert.

  “Is it urgent, William?” she asked testily.

  “I think so, madam.”

  “Very well.” She rose and preceded him toward the deserted council chamber. “Well, my Spirit?”

  Cecil cleared his throat. “Madam, I must speak. These rumors about you and Lord Robert have gone too far. I received this report today. It is being said around the court that you are with child by him.” He handed her a paper.

  Elizabeth burst out laughing. “William, this is nonsense and you know it! You also know I mean to die a maid.”

  “I know only what Your Majesty tells me,” Cecil said stiffly, “and that you have a habit of frequently changing your mind. Madam, I beg of you, use more discretion in your dealings with Lord Robert. There are no fewer than twelve envoys now at court, all urgently pressing the suits of their hopeful masters. You are in a strong position. The princes of Europe are queuing up for your hand, and while they live in hope, they remain friendly toward us. But how they will actually fare, God knows, and certainly not I.”

  “You know my mind, William. Keep them waiting, keep them sweet.”

  “Madam, their heads are spinning as fast as mine is. One day you are for the Archduke, the next you affect to be indifferent to his proposal. It is the same with all your suitors, even those fools Arundel and Pickering.”

  “I have turned them both down,” Elizabeth said. “I could not bear their prancing around me anymore.”

  Cecil sighed. “Well, Heaven be thanked for small mercies. But what is this I hear from Bishop de Quadra? Apparently you have told him more than once that you yearn to be a nun and pass all your time in a cell praying.”

  “I was teasing him,” Elizabeth confessed, giving Cecil an arch look.

  “I fear he did not like your flippancy in such a matter. And yearning to be a nun does not ride well with the attention you pay Lord Robert. Madam, I fear these new rumors will be your undoing. I pray you, do not give your enemies cause for gossip.”

  “Ah, my careful Spirit, there is no cause for gossip,” Elizabeth reassured him. “Do you take me for such a fool?”

  “No, madam, but others think you abandon caution. Quadra believes that all is falsehood and vanity with you, and that you but toy with the Archduke.”

  “God’s blood!” Elizabeth exploded. “I will teach him that he must not say such things! I will show him that I am honest in my dealings.”

  Cecil concealed a smile. “And Lord Robert? You will be more circumspect?”

  She smiled innocently in turn.

  Elizabeth fumed and fretted. How dare Bishop de Quadra speak of her like that! She must somehow show him that she was not trifling with him—and pay him back for his rude words.

  Robert’s sister, Mary Sidney, was the lady-in-waiting she loved the most after Kate Knollys. Mary and her husband Harry were especially dear to her—Elizabeth’s brother, King Edward, had died in Harry’s arms—and both were utterly loyal. Mary was raven-haired and exquisitely beautiful, a flower grafted from a noble tree; what was more, she had a good heart and a playful sense of humor. A true Dudley, she also had a penchant for intrigue. She was just the person to assist her mistress.

  Elizabeth sent for Mary and told her that she wished her to visit Bishop de Quadra in secret. Mary’s eyebrows shot up in surprise.

  “You wish me to compromise his reputation, madam?” she asked, incredulous.

  “Nothing like that,” El
izabeth chuckled, “although I should dearly love to see the good bishop’s face if it were! No, Mary, it is a ploy to revive the negotiations for my marriage to the Archduke. It is not something I can broach myself.”

  Mary was trying but failing to conceal her dismay. Obviously she had been hoping that the Queen would marry her brother.

  Elizabeth ignored her discomfiture. “You will tell His Excellency that a plot was uncovered at Nonsuch Palace—a plot to poison me and Robert.”

  “Oh, madam!” Mary cried, a look of horror on her face. “I did not know of this.”

  “That is because there was no plot!” Elizabeth said, laughing. “But you will tell him that there was, and that you are now so afraid for my safety that you desire to see me married to a great prince who can protect me from my enemies. You will beg him to reopen negotiations on behalf of the Archduke. That you, a Dudley, are beseeching it will carry conviction.”

  “Your Majesty thinks he will heed me?”

  “Yes, indeed.” Elizabeth was enjoying herself hugely. “And you will say to him that he must ignore my apparent reluctance to discuss the marriage, as it is the custom for ladies in England not to give their consent in such matters until they are teased into it.”

  Disconcerted though she was, Mary Sidney had to smile at the thought of the dignified, portly Bishop de Quadra striving to tease the Queen.

  “Just tell him,” Elizabeth went on, “that the time is ripe, and I might now be prevailed upon to give my answer, and also that my council will urge me to do so, as they are tired of all the delays. Assure the bishop that you would not say such things to him if they were untrue. If it comes to it, you may even say that you are acting with my consent. Tell him I would never raise the subject myself, but that I should be glad if the Archduke would visit England.”

  “Very well, madam, I will try to see him tonight.” And Mary sped from the room on soft-slippered feet.