Queen of This Realm

When we heard the news Burghley immediately called a meeting of the Council.

The position was grave, he said. The death of William meant that the responsibility for saving the Dutch from Spain now rested with England.

I was loath to accept this. I could see a long-drawn-out war fought on Dutch soil if it was true—I would never allow it to be the soil of England. I could see men dying and money wasted … and little success with it. If William had not been able to drive out the Spaniards, how could we?

“He was very successful in the circumstances,” said Burghley. “If he had had more resources, who knew what he might have done?”

We had equipped Anjou to fight the Spaniards, I pointed out, and the Dutch owed us money which they had not repaid. They were hardworking people and were not poor. It was merely that the state of the country made it difficult for the government to impose taxes.

They agreed that what I had said was true but pointed out to me the danger of Spain's taking over complete control of the Netherlands, which would bring them uncomfortably near to us. We must never forget that the most dangerous enemy we had was Philip of Spain.

Could we not work out something in conjunction with the French? They would not want to see Spain victorious.

Our relations with them were not very friendly. They were still smarting from the humiliation suffered by the Duc d'Anjou and were probably realizing now that I had never intended to marry him and had merely dallied to gain more time to see what happened in the Netherlands.

There would be new uneasiness in France because the scene had changed there with the death of Anjou. Henri Trois had no son and the nearest heir was Henri of Navarre, himself a Huguenot.

I was disturbed when I heard that in desperation Holland had offered the sovereignty of the Netherlands to Henri Trois provided he would give them military help. This threw us into a panic for the idea of a Frenchdominated Netherlands was almost as alarming as a Spanish one. However Henri declined, for which we were grateful, but the situation was fraught with danger.

I was glad some of my counselors agreed that it would be unwise to meddle. Walsingham was one of them. We could not hope to succeed, he said; and our best plan was to make sure that our own country was well defended. We should push ahead with more rapid building of ships and make England impregnable.

I agreed wholeheartedly with this. Henri Trois was as unhealthy as his brother, I pointed out. They were a diseased race, those Valois. If he were to die everything would change in France, for Huguenot Henri of Navarre would come to the throne.

Walsingham's men brought alarming news. The Duc de Guise had formed an alliance with Philip of Spain. It was their avowed purpose that, when Henri Trois died, they would prevent Henri of Navarre from taking the throne and would purge France of its Huguenots so forcefully that in a short time they would have an all-Catholic country. They would extend their methods until the whole of Europe became Catholic.

Faced with such a problem, I did what I always did. I prevaricated.

I needed time, I said, to work out what was the best thing to be done.

THAT YEAR THERE was yet another death. Poor Robert, he was very sad. He had been so proud of the boy. I was sorry I had castigated him so sharply for trying to make an alliance for the child with Arabella Stuart.

I always made excuses for Robert. After all, I asked myself, what father worthy of the name would not want the best for his child?

He came to me and told me that he had received news of his son's illness and asked leave to retire from Court. I gave it at once and sent him off, saying that I would pray for the swift recovery of the little boy.

I believe they were both at young Robert's bedside when he died. I even felt a little sorry for Lettice. She was, after all, a mother. But she had other children—four of them; whereas poor Robert had only one—unless one could count Douglass Sheffield's boy.

My thoughts were with him during that time, and it occurred to me that in spite of all his scheming he had failed to get what he wanted most. He had wanted to share my crown and I had denied him that, and the older we grew the more I realized my wisdom in doing so. He had tried to make grand marriages for his son and stepdaughter and I had foiled him in that, too. But I had made him the most powerful man in the country, and the richest. Not that he would ever feel himself to be rich! Whatever Robert had, he would spend more. Robert loved extravagances and it must cost him all he had—and more—to run those magnificent places of his where everything had to be of the best.

He was more full of faults than any man I knew.

But I wept for him now.

The little one was buried in the Beauchamp Chapel at Warwick.

I sent for Robert and when he came to me I dismissed all the others.

“I think you might want to share your grief with me alone,” I said, at which he sat on a stool at my feet and leaning his head against my knees wept silently. I caressed his curling hair and wept with him.

I said: “Talk if you wish, Robin, but if you would rather remain silent, do so.”

But he wanted to talk. He told me of the mental perfections of his son; physically he had always been frail. It surprised me that Robert with his magnificent physique could produce a fragile child—but nature is like that. He told me of the anxiety he had suffered because the little fellow had been subject to fits and when they were over he had been very weak indeed.

“Robert, we must bear our trials,” I said. “You have much to be thankful for. This is a cruel tragedy but it will grow less as time passes.”

He thanked me for my sympathy, which he said was the best thing in the world to him, and I replied that he should know by now that I would always stand by him when life used him ill.

He nodded and kissed my hand and there was great accord between us. We knew again that our love for each other was a very precious thing and that it would last until one of us died and left the other desolate.

“His mother is prostrate with grief,” he said.

“It is natural that a mother should be,” I answered.

“She is so unhappy at your anger with her. If you could allow her to come to Court, it would help to cheer her.”

My softness dropped from me.

“No,” I said coldly and firmly. “There is no place for that woman at my Court.”

He was silent and so was I. The intimacy was over. He had ruined it by introducing a snake into our Eden.

BURGHLEY BROUGHT ME the pamphlet which he thought I ought to see.

I had had a pleasant evening, although it had been arranged to mourn and honor our lost friends, the Duc d'Anjou and William of Orange. I had dressed with the utmost care in black velvet decorated with silver thread and pearls. Over this I wore a shawl of silver mesh; it was as fine as a spider's web and had meant many hours of work by my good needlewomen to bring it to its perfection. My ruff was twinkling with gold and silver stars. I knew that I was looking my best.

I was still pondering as to what my action should be regarding the Netherlands problem. There were so many varying opinions in the Council and Burghley's view was that the Dutch, having failed to get Henri Trois to accept their crown in return for his aid, might offer it to me.

I was thinking of the magnitude of this when Burghley came to me and asked if I had seen the scurrilous pamphlet which was being circulated throughout the Court.

I said I had not and to what did it refer?

He said that it was entitled The Copye of a Letter wryten by a Master of Arts at Cambridge and was concerned with the misdeeds of a certain nobleman.