But she must be sure that the affair was over. She would keep the woman where she might see how she behaved in the future.
She said: “Lady Sheffield, I like your manners. You shall join us in our journeyings, and when we return to Court there will be a place for you in the bedchamber.”
Douglass fell to her knees in gratitude. Her joy shone from her eyes. If she were at Court, she would see Robert constantly.
A few days after that interview the royal procession left Kenilworth.
The Queen was thrown into a flutter of excitement by the arrival at Court of Monsieur Simiers, for this energetic little Frenchman came on a romantic mission; he came on behalf of his master, the Duke of Anjou, to ask for the Queen’s hand in marriage.
Elizabeth, certain now that Douglass’ child was also Robert’s, felt the need for a little courtship, and she welcomed Monsieur Simiers graciously.
Very soon the young man became her Monkey (because of his name, she told him, but his features did suggest the name) and he was seen walking with her, riding with her, sitting beside her; in fact he seemed scarcely ever out of her presence. He was practiced in all the arts at which the French excelled—dancing, paying compliments, adoring her with his eyes, hinting that he would barter twenty years of his life if he might be her lover in reality and not as proxy for another.
She bestowed upon him all the favors which she was wont to bestow on others; and his was the cheek which was affectionately tapped, his the arm on which she leaned, his the lips which kissed her hands. Her Monkey put her Eyes, her Lids, and her old Bellwether into the shade.
It was all a little ridiculous for, although she was well over forty, she was behaving like a girl of sixteen—and a frivolous lovesick one at that.
So absorbed was she with her Monkey that she scarcely noticed that the Earl of Essex was back in England and that there seemed to be burning within him a smoldering anger.
When Robert informed her that Essex’s work was not completed in Ireland and that he must therefore be sent back at once, she gave her consent and the Earl went most reluctantly.
Essex had been back in Ireland little more than a month when the news came that he had died of a flux; and there were rumors that his death was not a natural one.
Elizabeth snatched a few moments from the society of her Monkey to discuss this matter with Robert.
“What think you?” she asked. “Doubtless the man had his enemies. I like not these rumors.”
Robert answered: “Rumor must be quashed. There shall be an inquest, and my brother-in-law Sidney, as the Deputy of Ireland, will see that it is carried out in a fitting manner.”
“Let that be done then.”
And it was, for Sir Henry Sidney was able to report that the death of the Earl of Essex was due to natural causes.
Shortly afterward a man who had been closely connected with Essex died similarly. This man had uttered wild words; he had said that a very notable person in England had so urgently wished for the death of my lord of Essex that he had sent his professional poisoners to Ireland to dispatch him; and as those in charge of the inquest had been very near to that notable person, and their fortunes wrapped in his, the matter was not sifted as it might otherwise have been.
But this man was of no standing, and his death did not call for the investigation which had followed that of the Earl of Essex.
Kat, hearing the rumors, was frightened.
The gossip in her longed to disclose to the Queen all she had heard. But Kat loved her royal mistress even more than she loved gossip. The murder of Essex could mean only one thing: Leicester must this time be so deeply in love that he was considering marriage. It was all very well for Elizabeth to flirt with her Monkey, to speak of the charms of her dear Bellwether. Lightly she loved these men; but there was one whom she truly loved.
If she had married him, reasoned Kat, she would have been happier than she was without him. She would still have been the Queen and he would have had to obey her. She had chosen the wrong man if she expected him meekly to accept a position which was well-nigh intolerable.
She said to Elizabeth when they were alone: “Dearest Majesty, this Monkey and his master … you are not serious?”
“I am.”
“Would you then marry a man so much younger than yourself?”
“Am I so old then? Am I so ugly?”
“You are the youngest lady in the world—but that is in spirit, sweetheart. You are the most beautiful; but he is small and puny; and his skin is pock-marked.”
“How do you know?”
“We have heard it; and even his mother admits he has not the stature of his brother.”
“You meddle, Kat.”
“’Tis because of my love.”
“I know that. But I want no meddling.”
“Darling, why did you not marry him whom you truly love?”
“I know not whom you mean.”
“Ah yes, you do, darling. You have loved him long and he has loved you … and he is the one for you, and you for him.”
“Leicester!” she snapped; and her face hardened.
Was she thinking of Lady Sheffield and her child? wondered Kat. Or had she heard of the greater menace that was to come from the Countess of Essex?
Kat did not know and dared not ask; but she believed that it must be of Lady Sheffield that the Queen was thinking, for she would be less composed if she knew of his liaison with Lettice.
“What!” she cried. “Shall I so far forget myself as to prefer a poor servant of my own making to the first Prince in Christendom?”
Kat shook her head and was filled with sorrow.
“God preserve your Majesty from all unhappiness,” she murmured.
And Elizabeth lifted a hand to pat Kat’s arm affectionately.
Robert was on his way to a meeting with Douglass. He had asked her to come that day to the Close Arbor in the grounds about Greenwich Palace.
He was worried concerning Douglass, who was becoming hysterical now that she guessed something of his plans regarding Lettice. Douglass had a post in the Queen’s bedchamber and that was a highly dangerous situation, since it brought her into close contact with the Queen.
He had made up his mind.
He had heard of Elizabeth’s words to Kat Ashley; and he was sure now that, for many years, she had had no intention of marrying. Perhaps if he had never married Amy, if he had been free when they were both young, there would have been a different story to tell. But it was too late to think of that. He wanted children. He thought often of all the fine young men about the Court today who were the sons of his contemporaries. There were boys like Philip and Robert Sidney, and Bacon’s son Francis; there was Lettice’s own son Robert Devereux, since his father’s death, the Earl of Essex; and even Burghley’s son, young Robert Cecil, though humpbacked and far from prepossessing, was a son. The Queen was fond of him in spite of his lack of beauty, and this was not only because he was his father’s son; his keen wits and alert intelligence made him a son of whom to be proud; even the Queen, who could not tolerate ugliness, had a fondness for him and had christened him her Pigmy. And he, Robert, had no legitimate son! Come what may, he had decided to marry Lettice.
Accompanying him to this tryst with Douglass were a few of his trusted servants, those whose fortunes were so closely bound with his own that they dared not betray him even if they wished to do so.
Douglass was waiting for him.
He posted several of his men outside the Close Arbor that he might be warned of the approach of any whom he would not wish to witness this meeting between himself and Douglass.
She was pale and trembling.
He smiled kindly at her and, laying his hand on her shoulder, said: “You must not be afraid, Douglass. As you know, I have long both loved and liked you. I have always found that earnest and faithful affection in you which has bound me greatly to you. Douglass, that still exists, does it not?”