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I shook my head. He looked so mournful that I knew he was thinking of Leicester who he thought had an evil influence over me; and yet when I had been incensed by Robert's marriage and had declared my intention of sending him to the Tower, it had been Sussex who had restrained me and pointed out that I could not do so. There had been a chance to take revenge on his enemy then, but he had not done so because it would have been wrong and harmful to me and because he was ever a just man above all.
I wept for him. “I ca
I took a tender farewell of him and said that I should send every day— or come myself—until he was well, for he was constantly in my thoughts.
Hatton was with him at the end. He reported to me what he had said. It was: “I am passing into another world and must leave you. Beware of the gipsy. He will betray you. You know not the beast as I do.”
By the gipsy he meant Robert, who had been given that name by some because of his dark hair and dark flashing eyes.
Poor Sussex! Even in death he could not forget his jealousy of the man I loved beyond them all.
A few days later he died.
I WAS VERY AMUSED to hear that Dorothy Devereux had astounded them all by snapping her fingers at their grandiose plans for her and had run off with John Perrot's son, Thomas. The young pair had fallen in love. It was an unusual story that we had from the vicar of Broxbourne in whose church they had been clandestinely married. He said that two men had asked for the keys to the door of his church, which he had refused. They had then departed, but feeling that there was something unusual in the request, the vicar had gone along to investigate, to find that the door of the church had been forced open and inside a young couple were being married.
“Why,” I said, “this Dorothy Devereux has spirit. I will say that for her. And she has taken Tom Perrot and saved herself from her stepfather's proposed match with the heir of Scotland!”
I laughed with my women. Sir John Perrot, father of the bridegroom, was said to be a very close relation of mine. Whether he was or not remains a mystery, but I had to admit that I never saw a man who looked more like my father. Sir John was reputed to be his illegitimate son by Mary Berkley, who married a certain Thomas Perrot. Sir John was an enormous man; his build was exactly that of my father; he had a somewhat quarrelsome nature and was constantly involved in brawls. My father had encouraged him, and my half-brother Edward had made him a knight and helped him through financial troubles. And it was the son of this man whom Dorothy had married.
I could imagine Lettice's wrath for I was certain she was the one who had goaded Robert to his outrageous plans.
That was a year of death.
The first blow was the news that my dear little Frog had passed away. I had always known that he was no commander of men. He was a courtier, simply that. It had been a cruel joke to give this poor little man the name of Hercule—though he had been called Franois later. Not even of medium height, disfigured by the pox; it was as though Nature had regarded him as a joke, a travesty of a man. However education and upbringing had given him social grace but that somehow had made the contrast between ma
I had treated him badly, played on his vanity, allowed him to believe that I had thought him attractive… all in the name of politics… and my own desire to be admired, of course.
And now the little man had died—not in battle, but in his bed. He had lived a life of debauchery, I knew, which somehow seemed more to be deplored because he was so ugly and could only have found partners to share in his frolics because of his wealth and royalty.
I went into mourning for him and wept a little. Perhaps some of my men thought I was acting but I did feel a genuine grief.
Then there occurred another death—one which was to shatter the whole continent of Europe. William of Orange was murdered.
This was a great blow to the Protestant world. He was one of their most respected leaders—an upright, noble gentleman who had given his life to the protection of the weak against the strong. In his youth he had been a Catholic and had discovered through Henri Deux of France, that France and Spain were formulating a plot to destroy the Protestants in the two countries. The massacre which had taken place on the eve of St Bartholomew's Day had been only a step toward this. When William heard that the Duke of Alva was raising an army to come against Holland and that his object was to exterminate what he called heretics and set up the Inquisition in that country, he became a Protestant and steeled himself for the almost impossible task of fighting Philip of Spain. He was determined to sacrifice everything he had— including his life—to preserve the welfare and liberty of his people.
But there was no holding back the Spaniards and Alva arrived with ten thousand troops and established what he called The Council of Troubles and which the Netherlanders called The Council of Butchers. In a short time he had put twenty thousand i
William escaped to Germany where he attempted to build up an army, while his people were submitted to a tyra
It had been believed that William could never regain his land. The Spaniards were there in strength; the bloody Inquisition was established and the most cruel deaths were being suffered by people who had committed no fault beyond—if that can be called a fault, which I called a virtue—refusing to accept the Catholic Faith.
Then a great event occurred—one of which the Dutch were justly proud. Many Dutchmen having been driven from their land had taken to the sea and formed themselves into a company of pirates who robbed the Spanish ships coming into Holland. They were known as the Beggars of the Sea. They captured the town of Briel which they fortified and declared they were holding for “Father William.”
It was a turning point because it showed the Spaniards that they had not won the complete victory which they believed they had, and it enabled William to return to Holland. William the Silent—as they called him, for he was a man of few words—was in control again, proclaimed ruler of the land.
They were a valiant people, those Dutch, and they were heartened by the Huguenots of France who, disgusted by the massacre of St Bartholomew's Eve, came to Holland to help in the fight. William was seeking allies. That was when he had turned his eyes to us.
I wanted to help him; but I had a great aversion to involving my subjects in wars—however righteous. It was for this reason that I had been so pleased to send Anjou to Holland. It was not only to be rid of him but to assist a worthy cause.
Philip must have hated William the Silent, the man whose name was a magic talisman among his followers. He was a perfect leader; his people were devoted to him; he shone with his desire to make any sacrifices which would bring about their liberty.
Philip knew such men were dangerous, and desperately he wanted him out of the way. There had been many attempts on William's life—none of which had come to anything. His people believed that God preserved him to be their savior.
And so it seemed until that dismal day in July of the year 1584 when, in his city of Delft, he was shot dead by a certain Balthasar Gerrards. The irony was that Gerrards had begged from William himself, asking for alms for a poor Calvinist, and William had responded to his appeal. With the money his ruler had given him Gerrards bought a pistol and shot the great man dead.
Gerrards was immediately arrested and tortured. He confessed that he was Philip's spy and was executed most barbarously for the Dutch knew that he had dealt them the most cruel blow possible, and they wanted revenge. But revenge could not bring back William the Silent.