“God bless you,” said Robert.
“God bless my lord,” said the boy.
“I envy you this fine boy,” said Robert to the warder. “I … who have no sons … nor daughters either, for that matter.”
He thought with exasperation of Amy, waiting for him in the manor house which was their home—Amy who had saved him from marriage with the Lady Jane Grey and who now stood between him and he knew not what.
“Ah, he’s a bonny fellow,” said the father. “And he has brothers and sisters.”
“You are a lucky man.”
The warder shook his head, thinking of the splendors of the Dudleys which had ended so tragically and abruptly.
The little boy wandered out, tightly clutching the bunch of flowers.
A change had come over the Princess Elizabeth. There was fresh color in her cheeks, renewed sparkle in her eyes. It was obvious that she looked forward to her walks in the Tower garden.
She would smile and kiss the warder’s little boy who so often brought her flowers. She would pick him up in her arms and whisper to him, walking with him among the flower beds. Her attendants and the guards said: “She is very fond of children.” And it was touching to see the eager way in which she took the flowers which the child brought to her.
She had thrown off her melancholy. It was difficult to believe that her life was in danger and that none was more aware of that dismal fact than herself.
“Ah, my little one,” she would cry, on seeing the boy, “so you do not forget me then?”
“I would never forget you, Mistress,” he would say.
She would take his little hand and walk away from those who attended her; she wished to be alone in the gardens with her little friend.
“How is my lord?” she would whisper.
“He says that he is in wondrous health since he has had word from your Grace.”
“He looks for a letter from me, I doubt not?”
“Nay, Mistress. He says you must not write. I will tell him what you say.”
“You are a dear good child and I am fond of you.”
So she blossomed among the flowers and passed much time in her apartments—which otherwise would have been spent wearily—in remembering the charm of Robert Dudley, picturing what would happen if they met again.
Other children began to follow the warder’s little boy into the gardens. There was so much talk of the Princess, that they too wished to see her and to tell her how sorry they were that she was a captive.
There was the son of the Keeper of the Queen’s Robes, and little Susannah, the daughter of another warder, who came with the boy. They would run into the garden and stand before the Princess, who always had a word and smile for them; but little Will was her favorite.
There were many persons of importance who wished to show leniency toward the Princess. It was folly, said Bridges, the Lieutenant of the Tower, to offend more than need be, a lady of Elizabeth’s rank. One turn of Fortune’s wheel and she would be their Queen. He expressed his feelings thus in order to win support for them; for he himself was a kind man and the plight of the Princess had aroused his compassion. He swore to himself that while Elizabeth was in his charge she should have as much respect as he dared give her.
It was not long before the Princess was allowed to go where she wished within the precincts of the Tower; and thus it was that she saw Robert.
She knew that he was in a lower cell of the Beauchamp Tower, and that if she passed by he would be able, by looking through the bars of his window, to see her. On that first day of her new liberty, she curbed her impatience, but on the second she dressed herself with the utmost care and with her attendants about her and her guards nearby, she walked aimlessly in the direction of the Beauchamp Tower.
“Wait here,” she said to her attendants. “I would be alone for a while.”
The sympathetic guards allowed her to go on, but they begged her not to go from their sight or they would be forced to follow her.
She paused by the Beauchamp Tower and whispered: “Robert. Robert Dudley. Are you there?”
He was at the window looking through the bars.
“My … Princess!” he murmured.
He was pale through long confinement, but his pallor seemed but to enhance the beauty of that incomparable cast of features; the flesh had fallen away to disclose the fine contours of his face. How handsome he is! thought the Princess; and any man who admired her seemed to her charming.
“I cannot tarry long,” she murmured. “My guards are watching. Have a care.”
“You came … to see me! I shall remember it till I die.”
“Robert … what will they do to us?”
“Time will tell.”
“You do not care?”
“Life has to end sometime, sweet Princess. I have railed against my fate. But I am here and, because I am a prisoner, and you are a prisoner, I have shown you what is in my heart. How could Robert Dudley have said to a noble Princess what one prisoner could say to another?”
“You have been very bold,” she said with feigned severity.
“It is well, mayhap, that the walls of a prison separate us, for if they did not, how could I, dazzled by your beauty, control what might be unforgivable boldness?”
She pretended to contemplate the April sky, and her eyes seemed to take color from its blueness. She heard the call of the cuckoo from the distant meadows. Spring was in the air and in her heart; she could not think of death for herself at such a time. They were both so young. Prisoner as she was, this was one of the happiest moments of her life. She vowed there and then that she would never forget the man who had made it possible for her to be so happy in this grim prison.
“It is well indeed,” she said. “I shall walk on a few paces and turn back. I see they are watching me.”
His voice followed her. “If tomorrow I walk out to the scaffold, I shall not complain. I am a prisoner here under sentence of death, yet I rejoice … for the Princess has passed my way.”
How handsome he was! How ardent his eyes! She had heard it said that he was irresistible. Yet because she was a Princess her royalty would resist him. But what need to think of resistance? They were separated by unbreakable barriers: her royalty, his prison walls, his marriage to a country girl. She did not resent these barriers; she wished for barriers. She saw herself as the most desirable woman in England, young, beautiful, yet unattainable. That was how she wished it to be.
She dawdled past his window once more.
“I was grieved,” she said, “when I heard of your arrest. I was grieved because I remembered you and because of the reason you are here.”
He was prepared. He had not mentioned politics in his letters; those spoke of nothing but love and devotion. He said: “I am my father’s son. I had no alternative but to fight in my father’s cause. I was young … without experience, his to command.”
“And who may command you now?”
“The Princess Elizabeth. She may command me, body and soul.”
She was delighted, but she said with asperity: “When was your allegiance severed from the Lady Jane Grey? When she went to the scaffold?”
“I can only say that I served my father.”
“Robert, you are a fool. And so am I to linger here.”
“But … you will walk this way again?”
She stooped as though to flick a piece of grass from her shoe. “Should I step out of my way to listen to you?”
“If you are merciful, yes.”
“Merciful?” She looked round. Those who were watching her were growing suspicious. She dared dally no longer, but she was finding it difficult to tear herself away. Flirtation such as this was a game she enjoyed beyond all others. “Who am I, a poor prisoner, to be merciful?”