The Marriage Game (40 page)

“I shall go to the Queen and ask her to
make
you wed me,” she had threatened during one particularly heated quarrel. “We shall ride her displeasure and then you will
have
to do the right thing by me and Robin!”

“You little fool!” Robert shouted. “She’d have us both in the Tower, and then what would happen to our son?”

“She would not go so far. It is no crime to marry.”

“Do you understand nothing? When the Queen is jealous, she is vengeful. Remember what happened to Katherine Gray?” A poignant memory of a pale wet face came to mind; poor girl, she had died in captivity at just twenty-eight, still separated from the man she loved—a salutary example to anyone who was contemplating defying Elizabeth and marrying for love.

Douglass fell silent. She just stood there in her fine parlor, glaring balefully at him.

“So are you never going to make an honest woman of me, even for the sake of our child?”

“No.” He was adamant. He did not love Douglass, he did not particularly desire her anymore, and their marriage would bring him ignominy rather than advantages. Nevertheless he hated himself for what he was about to do. He had thought about it with increasing frequency. “We must part, and put an end to this charade. Let’s not pretend that we are happy together. You want your freedom as much as I do. I will continue to make generous provision for our son, and cherish him as a father should. He will lack for nothing—and neither will you.”

He saw by her face that she would capitulate. Loving him—if that was the right word—had not brought her what she had hoped for, but money compensated for that, no doubt. It often did, he reflected.

“Very well,” she agreed. “You need not fear that I will make a scene. I mean to get married, if any man will have me, and then you can take Robin into your household, as is fitting.”

“Then we are both well suited,” Robert declared. “Come, let us drink to our bargain.” As he raised his goblet, he knew what he would do. He would make one final, extravagant, determined bid for Elizabeth’s hand.

1575
 

It was a hot July day when Elizabeth arrived at Kenilworth. Robert had ridden out to meet her at Long Itchington, seven miles away, and entertained her there to a lavish dinner in a sumptuous pavilion he had had erected especially for the occasion. By the time they sat down to a table laden with meats and fowl with sauces of every description, he had ceased worrying about how much all this was costing him. It would be a worthwhile investment if everything went to plan.

In the afternoon, he and Elizabeth enjoyed some good hunting before making their way to the castle. By then it was dusk, and a thousand torches flickered in the balmy evening air as the Queen, followed by a great procession of courtiers and attendants, rode up to the drawbridge. She saw that it had been decorated with cornucopias of fruit and vines, the symbols of earthly bounty; one cornucopia was hung with musical instruments, another with armor.

“They are here to show that all that I own proceeds from Your Majesty, and that I would lay down my life for you,” Robert said, sitting tall and elegant in the saddle beside her. She noticed that he was filling out his pointed doublets these days, but he still cut a dash with his manly bearing and his dark Gypsy’s eyes. There really was no man to touch him, she thought, even now. She was very near to forgiving him.

She had never told him that she knew about his bastard son. The next she’d heard, he had abandoned his trollop, and not before time
too. His behavior had not been honorable, but Elizabeth was no fool. She could easily guess why Robert had not married the mother of his child. He had something—or rather someone—far greater in his sights, and this was why he invited her to stay at Kenilworth. She did not doubt that his lavish welcome was symbolic of something of much greater magnitude than mere entertainment.

The castle was surrounded by a vast lake on three sides, and as she approached the outer gatehouse, Elizabeth saw rising from the water a magical island illuminated by torches, and upon it a silken-clad Lady of the Lake attended by nymphs. The Lady recited Kenilworth’s history to the Queen, naming all its illustrious owners—many of them Elizabeth’s own ancestors—before offering up the castle to her as a gift.

“I was under the impression that it was mine already,” she muttered under her breath.

There then followed much fussing and ceremony as players dressed as sibyls and porters presented the Queen with the keys to the castle, and trumpets heralded her arrival in the inner court. In front of her, majestic and beautiful, rose the enormous hall built by her great-, great—she forgot how many greats—grandfather, John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster; to her right was the massive ancient keep, and to her left the magnificent new lodging built by Robert to receive her. He himself escorted her to the sumptuous chambers prepared with every thought for her comfort, then dismissed their attendants. They were alone for the first time in months. Beyond the great oriel windows, fireworks were sparkling, fizzing, and cracking in the velvety sky. The noise was deafening.

“We brought in an Italian skilled in pyrotechnics.” Robert, standing behind her, had to shout to be heard. “Fortunately we were able to dissuade him from his plan to shoot cats and dogs into the air!”

She giggled at that, suddenly the young girl he had once known. Could they be lovers again? Would all that he had done here to show his devotion convince her that they really should marry?

“I have had a glorious garden planted for you,” he told her when the
display was over. He was like a child, eager to show off its treasures and craving approval.

“I cannot see any garden from here,” she said.

“You will see it tomorrow,” he promised, looking a little crestfallen. “It lies beyond the keep. I am sorry that you do not have a view of it.”

“No matter, dear Eyes,” Elizabeth said, moving to the opposite window. It overlooked the lake, and in the torchlight she could see at the edge of the water a fountain with statues of naked nymphs. They really were quite voluptuous—and they were directly under her window. Had that been deliberate? she wondered, feeling the first thrill of excitement she had experienced in what seemed like a very long time.

Robert came up behind her again and stood as close as he dared without actually touching her.

“They are very lifelike, those statues,” he observed. “Do you like them?”

“They are very naughty,” Elizabeth chuckled, “and would inflame any mind with too long looking!”

“As you have inflamed mine!” he declared. “Their beauty—wondrous as it is—cannot compete with yours. It is the sun compared to the moon, and I am dazzled by it, mere mortal that I am.”

It was the kind of compliment she loved, especially as it came from Robert, for he’d known her in former years when she had not looked for such extravagance, and lavish flattery was not part of their accustomed love-play. Nevertheless he had said these words to please her, and he was clearly gratified to see her break into a smile.

“You wax lyrical tonight, Robin!”

“It is your nearness that makes me so bold.” He slid his arms around her slim waist. It was a long time since they had been so close. She did not resist, but neither did she react.

“I have missed our intimacy, Bess,” he murmured in her ear.

“You made up for it elsewhere, I hear,” she said, tart.

“A man cannot live by bread alone,” Robert said, pulling her closer to him. “It was for lack of you that it happened. I am sorry if I hurt you.”

“I thought of making you sorrier!” Elizabeth taunted him, remembering those tortuous nights spent plotting revenge. “Is all this an apology?” Her delicate hands indicated the luxurious room and the lake beyond the window.

“That—and, I hope, more,” he murmured. “A new beginning, if it pleases you.”

“We shall see!” She smiled, extricating herself from his embrace. He was not getting off so lightly. She clapped her hands to summon her maids from the bedchamber.

Robert bowed. “Then I bid you good night, my sweet Bess,” he said, satisfied. It had been a good start. He would win her around; he was practiced in it, after all. As to his ultimate purpose, he trusted to the joy of their reunion to accomplish that.

As he left the great chamber, Robert surprised a young woman dozing on a chair outside the door. Her expensive silk gown proclaimed her to be one of the Queen’s ladies-in-waiting, and when she looked up, he recognized her at once. It was Lettice, the former Lady Hereford, now Countess of Essex, whom he had once pursued. She had been away from court for some months, running her absent husband’s estates while he was busy subduing a rebellion in Ireland. Robert was struck anew by her beauty, which was even more powerful in maturity than it had been in youth. Her flame-red hair framed a perfect oval face from which sloe eyes looked out sleepily in the most seductive of expressions.

“My lord,” this vision said, rising languorously and smiling. “This is an unexpected pleasure.”

“The pleasure is all mine,” he said, enchanted. Desire was still unsatisfied in him.

“Is the Queen abed?” Lettice asked.

“She will be soon. You do not need to attend her. Others are on duty.”

“Then I am free for the night after all.” It was more of an invitation than an observation.

He drew in his breath. “Is your good lord here?”

“No,” she replied dismissively, “he is at Chartley, making ready for Her Majesty’s visit. Afterward he goes back to Ireland.” Essex had been much applauded for his firm rule in that wild land, but now, suddenly, to Robert, he seemed as great and troublesome an enemy as the rebel Irish.

“Do you go with him?”

“No. I prefer to remain at Chartley.” She looked up at him with those strange slanting eyes in which he could see flecks of gold reflected from the torchlight. They drew him in. He bent and kissed her lightly on the lips. Then he left her, much to her bewilderment. He dared risk nothing that might compromise this last and most costly bid for Elizabeth’s hand.

When Elizabeth woke and looked out of her window, she gasped in astonishment. Below, in the crook of the walls, there was an exquisite little garden, with stone vases full of flowers and newly scythed turf.

Robert had done this for her! He must have arrayed a small army of gardeners, who in turn must have worked silently through the night, for she had heard not a whisper. Her heart leapt.

“I thank you for the garden, dear Eyes,” she said as he escorted her to the nearby parish church for Sunday service. “It is a pretty conceit.”

“You know you have only to express a wish for something, and I will do all in my power to give it to you,” Robert assured her, nodding at the congregation, who were all craning their necks to see the Queen. Elizabeth smiled graciously at them before taking her seat in the front pew. Behind her, seated with the ladies-in-waiting, Lettice stole a sleepy look at Robert and smiled.

After church there was a lavish feast in old Gaunt’s soaring great hall, with music to follow, and in the evening there was another fireworks display. The weather continued hot and sultry, and the next day it was so sweltering that Elizabeth begged leave to rest in her room. Only late in the afternoon did she emerge, demanding to go hunting, at which Robert leapt into action—as speedily as he had leapt out of Lettice’s bed as soon as word came that the Queen was astir—and ordered horses to be saddled.

When they returned that evening, torches again lighting their way, a wild man sprang from the bushes, wearing a costume of moss green with leaves attached.

“I know that face,” Elizabeth said to Robert. “I have seen the fellow at court.”

“George Gascoigne, the poet. He has assisted me with the entertainments.”

Gascoigne—the so-called wild man—recited some verses in company with his sidekick, Echo, then enthusiastically broke a branch over his bare knee to show that he was willing to be tamed and submit to the Queen’s authority. The broken branch unfortunately ricocheted, causing Elizabeth’s mount to rear in terror, almost throwing her, and there were gasps of dismay from the watching throng. An expert rider, she managed to stay in the saddle and calm the horse, and almost burst out laughing when she saw Robert’s mortified face.

“No hurt! No hurt!” she cried, and everyone cheered, the terrified Gascoigne more enthusiastically than anyone else.

The program over the next few days was packed with marvels. Robert had laid on more hunting, bear-baiting, masques, water pageants, breathtaking acrobatics, and spectacular fireworks over the lake. There were feasts, banquets, and picnics. It was all designed to show Elizabeth how delightful her life would be if she wed him. He had even arranged for a rustic wedding to be celebrated in the castle courtyard, so the Queen could share in the joys of her subjects and reflect on the bliss of the married state.

It did not quite have that effect. The bridegroom, in his tan jerkin, was limping; he had injured himself playing football, but that did not stop him from jesting bawdily with his sixteen groomsmen, who all subsided into awkward silence when they saw the Queen sitting on her flower-bedecked chair on the castle greensward, and made fools of themselves showing off at tossing the quintain, which made her laugh uproariously.