Chapter 9 #2
Elizabeth’s friends, on the other hand, began to enter the married state with alacrity. In the spring of 1550 Elizabeth learned that Robert Dudley was to wed a young lady of Norfolk, one Amy Robsart. Elizabeth would attend the ceremony, as would Edward, her brother.
She and I traveled together in early June to the wedding, which was to be held at the palace at Richmond—the benefit of having the new Lord Protector as one’s father. The weather had turned warm, and soft air brought the scent of new growth from the fields beyond the roads.
“Sweet Robin needs cash, and he must needs marry it,” Elizabeth informed me as we supped in a wayside inn’s private chamber.
“A fifth son can expect little from his father, for all that man’s lofty position.
” She sniffed. “Lord Protector might mean he has a larger purse, but he holds the purse strings all the more tightly.”
It was clear Elizabeth did not approve of this marriage.
She’d known Robert—or Robin as she liked to call him—for most of their life.
Whenever Elizabeth had visited her father and Queen Catherine as a child, she and Robert had studied together.
Robert had loved mathematics and astronomy, Elizabeth Latin and Greek.
Though I’d paid little attention to Robert at the time, I recognized that he’d been charming even then, with his lopsided smile, dark good looks, and his devotion to Elizabeth.
The two were close in age—they liked to pretend they’d been born on the exact same day in 1533, but in truth Robert was about a year older, now eighteen to Elizabeth’s seventeen. They liked one another well, and after Elizabeth had made her quiet return to court, they’d renewed their friendship.
It had pleased me to see her with Robert at Edward’s gatherings, sharing dances and sometimes riding out together on the many hunts the royal family seemed to indulge in.
Elizabeth showed none of the strange infatuation with Robert that she’d given Seymour, although both men had a similar studied charm. Robert seemed a bit more practical than Seymour had been, more resigned to his place as younger son of a powerful father.
I was surprised—as many were—at Robert’s choice in Amy Robsart.
I’d glimpsed her various times throughout my life, and while she was pretty enough, she had none of the intellectual robustness of Elizabeth.
She barely glanced at Robert as we gathered the day before the ceremony at Richmond.
But of course, as Elizabeth had told me, her father was wealthy, and Robert would gain control of that wealth once they were wed.
Elizabeth did not deign to speak to Amy, that young lady being nothing more than the daughter of a country squire, albeit a well-off one. Elizabeth had bestowed a few small gifts on her via her ladies, and would congratulate her at the ceremony, but their worlds certainly did not mix.
The ball the night before the wedding was sumptuous.
Warwick spared no expense to marry off his son, pleased Robert had found a young woman of child-bearing age who stood to inherit a fortune.
Amy’s dowry must certainly be large, I speculated, as I gazed about the ballroom that had been decorated with live trees that held masses of blooms entwined around them.
The musicians hired for the night had been, for the novelty of it, suspended on ropes from the high ceiling. The musicians gazed nervously at the hard floor beneath them and clutched their instruments as they floated about. The music was a bit strained, but the revelers did not seem to mind.
I danced with several gentlemen in the pavanes and galliards, including Robert Dudley himself and Robert’s brother Guildford. I also danced with a young man called James Colby, tall and red-haired, who’d been introduced as one of Robert’s friends.
Colby danced well, though he seemed to have little interest in me. I preferred Guildford, who’d inherited some of the Dudley charm.
Very late that night—indeed, in the early hours of the next morning—I pattered along an upstairs gallery, searching tiredly for the chamber I shared with Aunt Kat. Richmond Palace was vast, and I lost my way.
I rounded a corner and spied, in a dark window embrasure, my Lady Elizabeth snug in Robert Dudley’s embrace.
I staggered to an abrupt halt. My heart beat hard three times before I realized that they were not kissing, but conversing. However, Robert’s arms were firmly around Elizabeth’s waist, and she smiled up at him, making no move to push him away.
If either saw or heard me, neither made a sign.
I decided, after a few sickening moments, that I had better stand at the end of the passage to make certain no one else came this way.
I could not imagine what scandal would befall Elizabeth if she were to be discovered in the arms of a man who planned to marry another woman on the morrow.
I turned my back on them, but I could hear their conversation clearly.
“An interesting choice of brides, sweet Robin,” Elizabeth was saying. “As I told you before.”
“She will do,” Robert answered.
“Aye, she is rich and from good stock.”
Robert tittered. “You make her sound like a soup.”
“May you have many, many offspring from your soup,” Elizabeth returned. “That is why gentlemen marry, is it not?”
“Gentlemen with ambitious fathers do,” Robert said darkly, his amusement fading.
“Now, now, this occasion is happy,” Elizabeth chided him. “In the hall you danced on light feet.”
Robert laughed once more, his dourness vanishing. “Do not tease me. Ever you tease me, dear Lizzie, as though you live to torment your Cock Robin.”
Elizabeth’s voice softened. “’Tis a pleasant thing to live for, teasing one’s friends.”
“But you tease me especially,” Robert said. “Come, admit it. I am your favorite tease.”
I tried not to roll my eyes at his obvious flirtation, and I debated making some noise so they would cease.
If I interrupted, however, Elizabeth would be embarrassed and possibly furious. She might send me from her side for days or even weeks before she decided to forgive me.
I also did not sense the danger in their silliness that had existed in Seymour’s attempts at a dalliance. Elizabeth and Robert were old friends—it was natural that some flirtation had grown between them.
“Your ladies will be searching for you,” Robert said, as though he sensed me hovering at the end of the gallery.
“They do fuss,” Elizabeth agreed. “They forget that they work to my demand.”
“Ever the imperious princess, are you not? I am certain they quake in their shoes.”
“Your tongue speaks nothing but nonsense, dear Robin,” Elizabeth said in mock severity. “It is silver coated.”
“Then stop my tongue. Kiss me, to wish me good luck on the morrow.”
“I wish you all the good fortune in the world,” Elizabeth replied, and then she went quiet.
I turned in worry to peer at them through the gloom. Robert had bent to Elizabeth, his tall frame curving over her smaller one. Their faces hovered an inch apart, and then Robert closed the space and let his lips touch hers.
Elizabeth flowed into him as the kiss deepened.
This was not a friendly buss for luck, but a kiss filled with a passion that had grown between them. I suspected this was not the first time they’d kissed—they seemed familiar with each other, even comfortable in the embrace.
When they at last broke apart, I stepped back into the shadows to hide myself.
Elizabeth must have heard some rustle, for her crisp voice rang down the hall. “You may attend me now, Eloise.”
She commanded in a tone I dared not disobey. I moved on numb feet along the passage to the window, holding my skirts still.
The pair stood apart now, Robert lounging against the embrasure’s carved stone arch, his smile firmly in place.
“’Tis only Eloise,” Elizabeth said as I halted and curtsied deferentially. “She knows how to keep her thoughts to herself.”
“The pretty seamstress.” Robert reached out and gently tugged a lock of my hair. “Would you like a gift, pretty seamstress?”
“No,” I said abruptly, then at his surprised expression I softened the word with another curtsy. “No thank you, my lord. You are most kind.” One was not rude to the Lord Protector’s son, even if he’d just been wantonly kissing an heir to the throne.
“She does not need you to shower her with gifts, Robin,” Elizabeth said, annoyed. “She is a dear friend who can keep her own counsel.” She held out her hand. “Walk with me to my chamber, Eloise. The halls might be filled with lecherous gentlemen.”
Robert laughed out loud. He gave my hair another tug before he waved me away.
“Take care of my lady,” he said, and winked. “Stay ever vigilant by her side.”
Elizabeth seemed to tire of the game. She frowned at Robert and pulled me to her side. “Good night, Lord Robert. My felicitations on your nuptials.”
She started swiftly down the gallery, and I had to stride quickly to keep from being dragged along with her. Behind us, we heard Robert’s laughter lingering in the darkness.
“Not one word,” Elizabeth said to me. “No tales to Kat or your uncle, do you understand? And never speak of it to me.”
“Of course, I will say nothing.” I was offended that she’d even think so. “But tell me, Your Grace—are you in love with him?”
Elizabeth bathed me in a glare that seared. “Do not be ridiculous,” she said with her usual ice.
Then she towed me at a near run all the way to her chamber, and I could ask no more questions.
Robert and Amy married the next day. Robert was red-eyed, an indication he’d not retired after I’d last seen him but likely had remained awake to drink more. Elizabeth sat serenely in the seat set aside for her comfort, her expression never changing as Amy Robsart became Amy Dudley.
After the ceremony Elizabeth coolly kissed Amy, now risen in rank, and wished her good fortune.
She bestowed an equally cool kiss on Robert.
Throughout the banquet and the ball that followed, Elizabeth kept her gaze on Robert, but the pair never made any sign that they were more than childhood friends.
Once, when I’d paused to refill her cup of wine, and we were relatively alone, Elizabeth snapped at me, “Close your mouth, Eloise. You gape like a fish. When I asked for your discretion, I did not mean for you to frown upon us like a disparaging nursemaid.”
My temper splintered, and I leaned to whisper into her ear. “You put yourself in danger, Your Grace. Have you forgotten how close you came to arrest and ruin?”
Elizabeth jerked to face me, her eyes narrow slits. “I am not a complete fool. Nothing has gone further than what you saw. Robin is a dear friend, a trusted friend, and now he is married. That is that.”
She turned away, finished with me.
I straightened, clutching the jug of wine so tightly that the silver’s pattern indented my palm. Aunt Kat was watching me from across the room, so I contrived a neutral expression.
To my intense relief, Robert and Amy left the next day for Norfolk, and Elizabeth returned home and to her usual routine.
We did not see much of Amy Dudley after that, but whenever Robert came to court at the same time Elizabeth visited, I slept very little.
Seasons passed, as did years. Edward grew closer to Elizabeth as his rule went on, but the court became a dour place. Edward left off his boyhood interests to endlessly discuss the reformed religion with men as dour and staid as he was.
Robert’s father, Warwick, made himself Duke of Northumberland in 1551, not long after he finally managed to have Somerset executed for supposedly plotting against him and Edward.
Robert resided quietly in Norfolk with his new wife and was elected to the House of Commons by his Norfolk constituents. The rebellion that had been fomented there before his marriage—ruthlessly squashed by his father—showed no signs of returning. Robert, if not beloved, was at least respected.
Archbishop Cranmer presented Edward with a revised edition of the Book of Common Prayer, as Edward took his religion very seriously. Edward approved of Elizabeth’s somber attire, which I continued to create for her, moving to new styles as the years slid one into the other.
Sweet Sister Temperance, Edward called her, and Elizabeth did nothing to disabuse his perception of her.
I could not help but remember Sweet Sister Temperance with her fingers entwined in Robert Dudley’s dark hair, but outwardly, as far as I could discern, Elizabeth behaved herself.
Young Edward, on the other hand, ground his teeth over his sister Mary, who refused to give up her Catholic masses. When Edward blatantly forbade it, Mary attended mass in secret.
Elizabeth, by contrast, read the Bible in English and discussed scripture intelligently with Edward, earning her younger brother’s praise.
Despite my worries about Elizabeth and Robert Dudley, life moved along calmly enough for the next few years. Then Edward, who as a boy had been hearty and athletic, suddenly grew sick, and then sicker.
It became known that his life was in grave danger. Elizabeth, riding to St. James’s in early 1553 to visit him, was turned away at the gates and had to retreat to Hatfield. Catholics dusted off their icons and prepared for the country to return to the old religion under Mary.
But Edward, as ill as he was, had another card to play. When he laid down his last hand, he shocked us all, and plunged Elizabeth—and by extension Aunt Kat and me—into dire peril for years to come.