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“Oh Mary,” I murmured. “So you…”
She lifted the veil and I saw her ravaged face. I could not speak. I was so overcome with emotion. My pretty Mary, to look so hideous, and it had happened because of her devotion to me.
“Oh Mary, Mary!” I cried and we wept together.
“Everything shall be done,” I told her.
But she shook her head sadly. “Nothing can be done,” she said sadly. “And Henry?” I asked. “He said it was just as it ever was between us… but I saw his face and he could not bear to look at me.”
“My dear, dear Mary, you shall always be at my side.”
She shook her head. “There is only one thing I want to do and that is hide myself away.”
“You shall have apartments here … your own apartments. You shall receive only those whom you wish to and, Mary, I shall come to see you every day when I am here…We shall talk together… and, dear Mary, I shall never forget.”
We clung to each other—but there was really no comfort I could offer her. I felt her misery acutely for she had incurred it for my sake and it could so easily have happened to me.
AFTER MY RECOVERY Lettice Knollys came to Court now and then. Although I was a little wary of her because of what I fancied I had seen pass between her and Robert, I was glad to see her. She had a lively wit and now that she was a mother, her beauty seemed to have deepened.
I used to talk to her a good deal and although there were occasions when she irritated me with too frank a comment, I could always give her a slap or a nip which silenced her and reminded her who was the mistress.
I missed poor Mary Sidney sadly, but I had given her very luxurious apartments and, although she rarely emerged from them, I hope she was not too unhappy. Whenever I was in the neighborhood I visited her each day and I would tell her everything that was happening, and we did spend some very happy times together.
I was furious when the Archduke Charles offered himself to Mary Stuart, and as usual I did not restrain my comment. Cecil reproved me, pointing out that although I did not want the man myself I wanted no one else to have him, which I suppose was true.
I wondered if Mary Stuart would take him. I knew the Le
Another of my suitors married. This was Eric of Sweden, and it was such a romantic tale that I could not help being affected by it. Apparently he had seen a girl selling nuts outside his palace when he rode in and out, and had become so enchanted by her surpassing beauty that he had fallen violently in love with her and married her.
“How romantic!” I sighed. “Do you know, I think he would have made rather a charming husband. Better,” I added, “than that rake of Austria who offers his hand here and there to whoever he thinks might take it.”
I was greatly interested in Mary Stuart. Would she take the Archduke Charles? What of Don Carlos, son of Philip? They said he was half mad, but would that matter if he were the heir to Spain?
I found myself obsessed by the woman. Was she really as beautiful as people said she was? I wondered how she was faring in those grim Scottish palaces—Holyrood House and Edinburgh Castle. How she must be missing France and those gallant poets. There would not be much poetry in Scotland, gallantry either.
I was always questioning the Scottish Ambassador about her. I would command him to sit beside me and try to make him talk of his mistress.
“I constantly hear of her beauty,” I said. “Do you find her very fair?”
“Aye,” he replied.
“All men are said to admire her. Do you, Master Melville?”
“She is my mistress and I could do nothing else.”
“As your mistress you must serve her and such an upright gentleman as you would admire a hideous hag, I doubt not, if she were your Queen.”
“The Queen of Scotland is not a hideous hag.”
“Tell me of her clothes. They say she is more French than Scottish, and has brought much of France into Scotland.”
“I know little of fashions, Your Majesty.”
“How does she wear her hair? I am told that mine is of a striking color. What is Queen Mary's hair like? Do you think it is of a more attractive color than mine?”
I could not help laughing at the dour young man and I liked to tease him while I was gleaning information about her whom I was begi
Melville said: “Your Majesty must ask others. I know nothing of such matters.”
“Well, you would not notice your mistress's hair because it is so like that of other ladies, I doubt not. It is only when the hair is of an unusual color and particularly beautiful that people are aware of it. Now answer me this: Who is the more beautiful, the Queen of England or the Queen of Scotland?”
“The Queen of England is the fairest in England and the Queen of Scotland in Scotland.”
“That is no answer,” I cried.
“Your Majesty is pleased to plague this poor Ambassador.”
“My skin is lighter, is it not? My hair fairer?”
“That is true, Your Majesty, but…”
“But what, man?”
“The Queen of Scotland is very beautiful.”
“That is often said, but how much of her beauty does she owe to royalty?”
“The usual amount, Madam.”
Poor man, he did not like this conversation. It must seem very frivolous to a man of his nature. On the other hand he did not want to say anything which when reported to his mistress might displease her. But I was relentless in my desire to know more of this paragon of beauty.
“Who is the taller, she or I?” I demanded.
“She is,” he answered promptly.
“Then she is too tall,” I snapped, “for I am told that I am neither too high nor too low. Does she hunt? Does she read? Does she love music?”
“She does all these, Madam, and is very fond of music.”
“What instruments does she play?”
“The lute and the virginals.”
“Does she play them well?”
“Reasonably well for a queen.”
I said no more then but I was determined that he should admit that there was one thing at least in which I triumphed over that perfect mistress of his.
One day I arranged to play the virginals behind a curtain and instructed some of my ladies to bring Sir James Melville into the room so that he might hear the music and not know who was playing.
He had sat entranced during the performance, they told me, and when it was over he had declared that it was brilliant. When my ladies asked him if he knew who the performer was, he said he did not know, only that he was a fine musician.
“It is the Queen,” they said, and drew back the curtains to disclose me, sitting there.
“Ah, Sir James,” I said, “now you have heard my music. Does your mistress play as well on the virginals?”
He had to admit that he had rarely heard such a performance from any, and he believed that very few could rival me.
“Not even the talented Queen of Scotland?” I demanded with much incredulity.
“No one, Madam. You are indeed a musician.”
That mollified me a little.
Then I danced for him and he had to admit that the Queen of Scots could not leap as high as I could, nor did she dance with such verve.
One day I said to him: “Your Queen is a lady of such talent and overwhelming beauty that I know of only one man worthy of her. You must go to her, Sir James, and tell her that I will offer her the finest man in my kingdom for only she is worthy of him and he of her.”
He was looking at me as though I mocked him.
But I went on: “Oh yes, Sir James, I mean it. I shall rob my Court of its brightest jewel that it may adorn that of this most worthy lady. I offer her as the husband she needs, my dearest friend, Lord Robert Dudley.”
THE NEWS SPREAD around the Court like wildfire. I wondered what effect it would have on Robert and was quite prepared when he came bursting into my apartments with a face of thunder.