A Favorite of the Queen: The Story of Lord Robert Dudley and Elizabeth 1 (18 page)

Of Jane’s thirteen children only five were left to her. Yet even while she wept for John she thanked God that Ambrose and Robert (and in particular Robert, for even the fondest mothers must have their favorites) had come safely through the ordeal.

As Robert rode
with Amy from London to Norfolk, all that elation which had come to him when the gates of the Tower had shut behind him, left him. He was conscious of a nagging frustration.

His brother, whom he had nursed through sickness, was dead. His mother had Death written on her face. He realized how deeply she had suffered—far more deeply than any of them; and he knew that having spent her energies on working for their freedom, she would not live long to enjoy the result of her labors.

And if he was a free man, what was left to him? Amy and life in Norfolk!
It had been made clear that although the Queen had graciously granted him his liberty, he must expect no further concessions. He, Lord Robert, son of a man who had been ruler of England, was now nothing but a penniless youth, married to the daughter of a country squire on whose bounty he was dependent.

When he looked at Amy he almost wished that she were not so faithful, or that he was less attractive.

He said, almost hopefully: “I have been away a long time, Amy. You are young and pretty. Come, you have not been faithful to me all the time, I am sure.”

She was indignant. “But, of course I have. How can you say such things?” Tears welled into her eyes. She went on: “Do you think that I could ever meet any to compare with you?”

She gazed at him through her tears. He had grown a little older during his imprisonment, but he was no less attractive for that. If his mouth were more stern, that but added to his strength; and if the events of the last months had set a little sadness in his face, that but made his smile the more intriguing. Beneath the sadness there was still that gaiety and vitality which told any woman who looked at him that he found life exciting, and that to be with him meant sharing in that excitement.

He smiled at her, but there was a hint of impatience in his smile. He knew she spoke the truth. The women of the Court had always smiled on him; and poor Amy, tucked away in the country, had not their opportunities.

His father-in-law greeted him with pleasure. He believed that if Lord Robert was unfortunately placed at this time, he would not always be so.

“Welcome home, Robert. Right glad we are to see you. It will be good to have the house made brighter by your presence and poor Amy happy again. The girl has been moping about the place, driving us all to share her melancholy.”

And so to the simple life. But how could the gay Lord Robert fit into that? Wistfully he thought of the Court and all the splendors he had once taken for granted. Robert the squire! Robert the farmer! It was too ironical. His great-grandfather had been a farmer. Had he, Robert, then completed the circle?

He would ride about the estate, watching the laborers at their work as they threshed the corn in the barns. Sometimes he would take one of the long staves with the short club attached and help flail the corn because it gave him some satisfaction to hit something. He would take the fan-shaped basket in which the grain was winnowed and shake it in the wind. And these things he did with a fierce resentment. He, Lord Robert, deprived of his lands and riches, was now nothing but a farmer.

He took part in the November killing of livestock and the salting for the winter; he gathered holly and ivy and decorated the great hall with it; he sang carols; he drank heartily, ate ravenously of the simple fare. He danced the country dances; he made love to the local women, among them the wife of a neighboring squire, and a dairy maid. It mattered not who they were, they were all Lord Robert’s if he willed it.

But this could bring only temporary satisfaction.

In January Jane Dudley died and was buried in Chelsea. She left the little she had to her children and expressed the hope that soon their full inheritance would be restored to them.

After the burial Robert did not immediately return to the country. He walked the streets with his brothers and sometimes saw members of the Court from which he was now shut out. He saw the Queen and her husband; he heard the sullen muttering against the Spanish marriage; he observed how ill the Queen looked, and rejoiced.

In Smithfield Square they were now lighting the fires at the feet of Protestants. Robert sniffed the acrid smell, listened to the cries of martyrs.

Ambrose and Henry were with him one day when they had been to see the terrible sights of Smithfield. They walked, shuddering, away and lay on the bank of the river, all silent, yet with angry thoughts in the minds of each.

Robert was the first to speak. “The people are displeased. Why should he be allowed to bring his Spanish customs here!”

“The people would rise against him if they had a leader,” suggested Ambrose.

“As Wyatt did?” said Henry.

“Wyatt failed,” put in Ambrose, “but he might not have failed.”

“Such matters,” said Robert, “would need much thought, much planning and preparation between trusted friends. Do not forget the damp cell and the odor of the river, the tolling bell. Remember our father. Remember Guildford. And John was killed in the Tower, though he in fact died afterward. He would be alive now, but for his imprisonment.”

“Is this Robert speaking?” cried Ambrose. “It sounds unlike him.”

Robert laughed. He was thinking of April in the Tower of London and the passion expressed in words which were spoken between the bars of a cell. “One day,” he said, “you will see what Robert will do.”

“You are making plans down there in Norfolk? Have a care, brother.”

“My plans are safe. I share them with none. That is the way to make plans.”

Two men passed them. They looked over their shoulders and said: “Good day to you, my lords.”

The brothers were on their feet. “We know you not,” said Robert.

“But all know the lords of Dudley.”

“Would you have speech with us?” asked Robert.

“We served your noble father, my lord,” said one of the men. “ We forget not those days. May good fortune return to your family. My lords, the people like not the Spanish marriage.”

“That is the Queen’s affair,” said Ambrose.

“My lord, you think so? Others think a Queen’s marriage is the affair of her countrymen. Those who think thus meet in St. Paul’s churchyard. They welcome among them those whose nostrils are offended by the smell of Smithfield smoke.”

The men bowed and walked on, and the three brothers looked at each other.

Henry said: “Let us not meddle. Have we not learned our lesson?”

But Robert was not attending. He was thinking of the monotony of life in Norfolk. Here was the place for him—if not at Court, then among the agitators of St. Paul’s.

The excitement of
the meetings stimulated Robert. There were plots to be made in the precincts of St. Paul’s, plots to depose the Queen and put the Princess Elizabeth on the throne. Once she was there, the dull life would be ended. He would present himself to her and remind her that he had sworn to be her slave. It might not be long before she was his slave. What woman who had loved him had ever been able to escape from him? That masculine charm was irresistible to duchess and dairymaid; so should it be to Princess and Queen.

Amy was fretful for him. Why did he stay so long in London? If he did not return she would die of melancholy. She would travel to London to see what detained him; she was longing for her Robert.

He tried to soothe her with loving messages and with brief visits to Siderstern. He explained some of his plans. “You see, Amy, at Siderstern I am more or less dependent on your father. I like that not. I would wish to recover my inheritance.”

“You will be in trouble again,” she said. “You will be sent to the Tower and I shall die.”

Then he would be his gay self, enchanting her as he knew so well how to; he would play the passionate lover. “How could I tear myself away from you unless it were necessary! But this is important. We shall be rich again. We shall have power. I shall take you to Court with me, and your beauty will startle them all.”

She believed him; and she longed to go to Court as Robert’s wife.

When he left her he would leave her with happy dreams. She would see herself dancing at the Court balls, clad in velvet, stiff with jewels. She would lie on her couch eating the sweetmeats which she loved so well, lazily planning the future.

Pinto would shake her head, and while she warned her mistress that she would grow very fat if she ate so many sweetmeats, she would be thinking that Robert was visiting a woman in London. Poor Pinto! She did not understand Robert. He was very ambitious, but he was content with his wife. Amy remembered the passion between them. But he had another love, it was true; the love of power, the longing to see his riches restored; and was that not natural in one so proud?

But Pinto went on sorrowfully wondering. If Amy could not hold him when he was a simple country gentleman, how would she when he became the great man he intended to become?

He came riding home from London one summer’s day. Amy saw him from her window, coming into the courtyard with his servants about him. Her heart fluttered. She was wearing an old muslin and she called frantically to Pinto.

“Pinto, my lord is come. Quick … quick …”

Pinto helped her to pull off the old muslin, but before she was in her cherry velvet he was in the room. He stood looking from her to Pinto.

“Robert!” cried Amy.

Pinto scarcely turned, because Pinto always pretended to be unaware of him. She would say: He may be the gay Lord Robert to others; they may tremble at the sight of him; but not Pinto. To Pinto he is just a man—no different from any other.

Amy’s cheeks were first red then white; she was almost swooning at the sight of him. “Pinto … Pinto … look!”

And he cried, his words mingling with his merry laughter: “Pinto, look! Lord Robert is here!”

“A merry good day to you, my lord,” said Pinto, turning her head very slightly and making do with a nod instead of a curtsy.

He strode toward them; he caught them both in his arms. He lifted them and kissed first Amy, then Pinto. Amy was blushing with pleasure; Pinto was prim with disapproval.

“Now, Pinto,” he said, “get you gone, and leave a wife to her lawful husband.”

“I’ll first see my mistress dressed,” said Pinto.

“You’ll not!” he retorted. “For I like her best as she is.” And he took the cherry velvet and threw it to the other side of the room.

Amy squealed in delight, and Pinto went sedately to the dress and, without looking round, picked it up and walked out of the room.

Robert, laughing, began to kiss and caress Amy.

“Robert!” she gasped. “No warning! You should have let me know.”

“What! And give you time to send your secret lover packing?”

Amy clung to him. Pinto often said that his constant references to
Amy’s secret lovers worried her. It was as though, said Pinto, he would put bad thoughts into the head of an innocent girl. But Pinto was against him. Poor Pinto! Poor simple countrywoman, she had never really known a Court gallant; and such a man as Robert must seem to her full of a sinister strangeness.

But why think of Pinto when Robert was here, glad to be home and full of passionate longing for his wife?