Страница 95 из 145
To hear myself described as a poor lamb led to the slaughter was more than I could bear. When I thought of how, since my accession, I had kept my country out of war, how I had served my people with unswerving devotion—and then to be thought of as a poor lovesick fool, for foolish a woman must be in her mid-forties to imagine a young man in love with her, splendid as she may be and ugly as he was—I was very angry.
I read more of the pamphlet which went on to say that I was too old for childbearing and to stress the state of health which prevailed in the Valois line. It was God's punishment on their flesh and bones for the lives of debauchery they had led. He finished by praying to Heaven to give me honorable and long sovereignty over my people with no ruling commander— especially the French Monsieur.
I could not accuse him of disloyalty to me, but his references to my age and the implication that I had been deluded, as some foolish girl might be, by the blandishments of a practiced libertine, set my anger simmering.
Stubbs, his printer and his publisher were brought to trial for publishing a seditious libel. They were found guilty and sentenced to that punishment which my sister had introduced when there was so much written about her marriage to Philip of Spain. It was that the guilty man's right hand should be struck off.
It was a cruel sentence and I deplored it; yet I could not control my wrath.
The printer was pardoned. He had merely printed what he had been given to print. It was different with the writer and the publisher.
I shall never forget that November day. It fills me with shame even now, and I knew as soon as it happened that I should have stopped it; I should have done so if it had not been for the ridicule I fancied the man had heaped upon me while I was striving all the time to do what was best for my country. Alas, my fury was not calmed in sufficient time.
So those two men—Stubbs and Page the publisher—were brought out from the Tower wherein they had been kept, to a scaffold which had been set up before the Palace of Westminster. There was a vast crowd to see the sentence carried out. I was sure that everyone in that crowd must have expected a last-minute message to stop the barbarity which was about to be performed on two good men.
But it did not come. First Page's hand and then that of Stubbs were struck off with a cleaver driven through the wrist with a beetle; and the wound seared with a hot iron. Page cried out: “I have left there the hand of a true Englishman”; and Stubbs said: “God save Queen Elizabeth.” Then both men fell fainting to the ground.
When the news of how bravely they had met their punishment was brought to me, I was overcome with remorse for I knew that it should never have happened. I could have lost my subjects' esteem even more than I was in danger of doing through the proposed marriage. They might think me foolish to be bemused by an ugly little Prince, but they would still love me; they would feel very differently about an act of cruelty.
When I was furious with myself it was one of my less pleasant traits to try to blame someone else. I sent for Walsingham and asked him why he had not discovered that the pamphlet was about to be published. Did he have a secret service or not? How could he have failed to suppress it?
Walsingham was not a man to mince his words—unlike most around me. I think he was too sure of my need of him—as was Burghley. He more or less implied that he had known the pamphlet was about to be produced and he agreed with the sentiments expressed in it.
I was angry with him and told him maliciously that he should prepare to leave for France because he should be one of those whose duty it was to bring about negotiations for the marriage.
The next criticism came from none other than Philip Sidney. I could scarcely believe the young jackanapes had had the temerity to write to me in such terms. But he was a bold young man—quiet, serious and clever, and he was, after all, Robert's nephew. He wrote:
“How the hearts of your people will be galled, if not alienated, when they shall see you take a husband, a Frenchman and a papist in whom the very common people know this, that he is the son of the Jezebel of our age—that his brother made oblation of his own sister's marriage, the easier to massacre our brothers in religion…”
I knew how strongly Philip Sidney felt about the massacre which had occurred on the Eve of St Bartholomew for he had been in Paris at the time. He was a Protestant and must have lived in terror during that terrible time, English though he was and therefore aloof from the quarrels of Frenchmen.
“As long as he is Monsieur in might and a papist in profession, he neither can nor will greatly shield you, and if he grow to be a king, his defense will be like that of Ajax's shield which rather weighed down than defended those that bore it.”
Wearily I tossed the letter aside. I wondered if Robert had seen it. Robert was against the marriage, of course. He would see his power greatly diminished if I took a husband. But you, my sweet Robin, I thought sadly, though back in favor will never be quite so close to me again now that you have taken that she-wolf to wife.
What should I do to Philip Sidney? I could not cut off his right hand.
The impertinent young fellow should be sent abroad for a while. I did not want to see him for some time. Perhaps in due course he would realize— as all my subjects might—that I was flirting so outrageously with the Frog Prince to prevent their being plunged into war.
WHEN I HEARD that Robert had a son my feelings were mixed. At first I rejoiced, for I knew that it was what he had longed for. What man does not want to see himself reproduced? Robert was no exception. I heard that there was great rejoicing at Leicester House and that a special cradle had been made for the child and it was draped with the most costly crimson velvet. It would be very splendid as everything was in Leicester House—and in every residence of Robert's.
I remembered when he had acquired Leicester House. It was about ten years before. The house was situated on the Strand and the gardens which ran down to the river were very beautiful. Many a time Robert and I had strolled among the flower beds to where the water lapped the privy steps and we had watched the craft sail along the river.
Then I imagined her there—the she-wolf—proud with the son she had produced. How like her to get a son! And so soon after the marriage! I could picture her smug, triumphant face with those magnificent eyes demanding admiration. And when I thought of her I was so angry that all my pleasure in Robert's triumph disappeared. I should have been the mother of his child. I could have been… but at what cost! My independence! My sovereignty! They were my life. I could never have given them up—not even for the satisfaction Lettice was enjoying now.
And where was he? Was he in attendance on the Queen? Indeed not! He was preening himself as the proud father at Leicester House.
The Countess of Leicester indeed! I heard she gave herself airs. She had her own little court at Leicester House…at Wanstead…at Denbigh… at Kenilworth… wherever they happened to be. And how had he acquired his wealth and fine houses? Through his Queen. I had given him everything … and here I was alone … childless while that she-wolf sat in triumphant state.
Thinking of that newly born child my thoughts returned to another. It was at Kenilworth that I had seen that child who bore a remarkable resemblance to Robert.
Douglass Sheffield! What was that story? He had married Douglass, so Douglass was reported to have said. Robert, of course, denied that there had been a marriage. But there was the child.
Just suppose there had been a marriage. Then Madam Lettice would not in truth be Leicester's wife and the little boy of whom they were so proud in his crimson velvet cradle would be a bastard.