The Murder of Amy Robsart

There had been a banquet, followed by a masque, and this again by a dance in which the young queen had paired off with Lord Robert Dudley, who in repute was the handsomest man in Europe, just as in fact he was the vainest, shallowest, and most unscrupulous.  There had been homage and flattery lavishly expressed, and there was a hint of masked hostility from certain quarters to spice the adventure, and to thrill her bold young spirit.  Never yet in all the months of her reign since her coronation in January of last year had she felt so much a queen, and so conscious of the power of her high estate; never so much a woman, and so conscious of the weakness of her sex.  The interaction of those conflicting senses wrought upon her like a heady wine.  She leaned more heavily upon the silken arm of her handsome Master of the Horse, and careless in her intoxication of what might be thought or said, she ­who by the intimate favour shown him had already loosed the tongue of Scandal and set it chattering in every court in Europe ­drew him forth from that thronged and glittering chamber of the Palace of Whitehall into the outer solitude and friendly gloom.

And he, nothing loth to obey the suasion of that white hand upon his arm, exultant, indeed, to parade before them all the power he had with her, went willingly enough.  Let Norfolk and Sussex scowl, let Arundel bite his lip until it bled, and sober Cecil stare cold disapproval.  They should mend their countenances soon, and weigh their words or be for ever silenced, when he was master in England.  And that he would soon be master he was assured to-night by every glance of her blue eyes, by the pressure of that fair hand upon his arm, by the languishing abandonment with which that warm young body swayed towards him, as they passed out from the blaze of lights and the strains of music into the gloom and silence of the gallery leading to the terrace.

“Out ­let us go out, Robin.  Let me have air,” she almost panted, as she drew him on.

Assuredly he would be master soon.  Indeed, he might have been master already but for that wife of his, that stumbling-block to his ambition, who practiced the housewifely virtues at Cumnor Place, and clung so tenaciously and so inconsiderately to life in spite of all his plans to relieve her of the burden of it.

For a year and more his name had been coupled with the Queen’s in a tale that hurt her honour as a woman and imperilled her dignity as a sovereign.  Already in October of 1559 Alvarez de Quadra, the Spanish ambassador, had written home:  “I have learnt certain things as to the terms on which the Queen and Lord Robert stand towards each other which I could not have believed.”

That was at a time when de Quadra was one of a dozen ambassadors who were competing for her hand, and Lord Robert had, himself, appeared to be an ally of de Quadra and an advocate of the Spanish marriage with the Archduke Charles.  But it was a presence which nowise deceived the astute Spaniard, who employed a legion of spies to keep him well informed.

“All the dallying with us,” he wrote, “all the dallying with the Swede, all the dallying there will be with the rest, one after another, is merely to keep Lord Robert’s enemies in play until his villainy about his wife can be executed.”

What that particular villainy was, the ambassador had already stated earlier in his letter.  “I have learnt from a person who usually gives me true information that Lord Robert has sent to have his wife poisoned.”

What had actually happened was that Sir Richard Verney ­a trusted retainer of Lord Robert’s ­had reported to Dr. Bayley, of New College, Oxford, that Lady Robert Dudley was “sad and ailing,” and had asked him for a potion.  But the doctor was learned in more matters than physic.  He had caught an echo of the tale of Lord Robert’s ambition; he had heard a whisper that whatever suitors might come from overseas for Elizabeth, she would marry none but “my lord” ­as Lord Robert was now commonly styled.  More, he had aforetime heard rumours of the indispositions of Lady Robert, yet had never found those rumours verified by the fact.  Some months ago, it had been reported that her ladyship was suffering from cancer of the breast and likely soon to die of it.  Yet Dr. Bayley had reason to know that a healthier woman did not live in Berkshire.

The good doctor was a capable deductive reasoner, and the conclusion to which he came was that if they poisoned her under cover of his potion ­she standing in no need of physic ­he might afterwards be hanged as a cover for their crime.  So he refused to prescribe as he was invited, nor troubled to make a secret of invitation and refusal.

For awhile, then, Lord Robert had prudently held his hand; moreover, the urgency there had been a year ago, when that host of foreign suitors laid siege to Elizabeth of England, had passed, and his lordship could afford to wait.  But now of a sudden the urgency was returned.  Under the pressure brought to bear upon her to choose a husband, Elizabeth had half-committed herself to marry the Archduke Charles, promising the Spanish ambassador a definite answer within a few days.

Lord Robert had felt the earth to be quaking under him; he had seen the ruin of his high ambitions; he had watched with rage the expanding mockery upon the countenances of Norfolk, Sussex, and those others who hated and despised him; and he had cursed that wife of his who knew not when to die.  But for that obstinacy with which she clung to life he had been the Queen’s husband these many months, so making an end to suspense and to the danger that lies in delay.

To-night the wantonness with which the Queen flaunted before the eyes of all her court the predilection in which she held him, came not merely to lull his recent doubts and fears, to feed his egregious vanity, and to assure him that in her heart he need fear no rival; it came also to set his soul Quiver impotent rage.  He had but to put forth his hands to possess himself of this splendid prize.  Yet those hands of his were bound while that woman lived at Cumnor.  Conceive his feelings as they stole away together like any pair of lovers.

Arm in arm they came by a stone gallery, where a stalwart scarlet sentinel, a yeoman of the guard, with a Tudor rose embroidered in gold upon his back, stood under a lamp set in the wall, with grounded pike and body stiffly erect.

The tall young Queen was in crimson satin with cunningly-wrought silver embroideries, trimmed with tufted silver fringe, her stomacher stiff with silver bullion studded with gold rosettes and Roman pearls, her bodice cut low to display her splendid neck, decked by a carcanet of pearls and rubies, and surmounted by a fan-like cuff of guipure, high behind and sloping towards the bust.  Thus she appeared to the sentinel as the rays of the single lamp behind him struck fire from her red-gold hair.  As if by her very gait to express the wantonness of her mood, she pointed her toes and walked with head thrown back, smiling up into the gipsy face of her companion, who was arrayed from head to foot in shimmering ivory satin, with an elegance no man in England could have matched.

They came by that stone gallery to a little terrace above the Privy Steps.  A crescent moon hung low over the Lambeth marshes across the river.  From a barge that floated gay with lights in mid-stream came a tinkle of lutes, and the sweet voice of a singing boy.  A moment the lovers stood at gaze, entranced by the beauty of the soft, tepid September night, so subtly adapted to their mood.  Then she fetched a sigh, and hung more heavily upon his arm, leaned nearer to his tall, vigorous, graceful figure.

“Robin, Robin!” was all she said, but in her voice throbbed a world of passionate longing, an exquisite blend of delight and pain.

Judging the season ripe, his arm flashed round her, and drew her fiercely close.  For a moment she was content to yield, her head against his stalwart shoulder, a very woman nestling to the mate of her choice, surrendering to her master.  Then the queen in her awoke and strangled nature.  Roughly she disengaged herself from his arm, and stood away, her breathing quickened.

“God’s Death, Robin!” There was a harsh note in the voice that lately had cooed so softly.  “You are strangely free, I think.”

But he, impudence incarnate, nothing abashed, accustomed to her gusty moods, to her alternations between the two natures she had inherited ­from overbearing father and wanton mother ­was determined at all costs to take the fullest advantage of the hour, to make an end of suspense.

“I am not free, but enslaved ­by love and worship of you.  Would you deny me; Would you?”

“Not I, but fate,” she answered heavily, and he knew that the woman at Cumnor was in her mind.

“Fate will soon mend the wrong that fate has done ­very soon now.”  He took her hand, and, melted again from her dignity, she let it lie in his.  “When that is done, sweet, then will I claim you for my own.”

“When that is done, Robin?” she questioned almost fearfully, as if a sudden dread suspicion broke upon her mind.  “When what is done?”

He paused a moment to choose his words, what time she stared intently into the face that gleamed white in the surrounding gloom.

“When that poor ailing spirit is at rest.”  And he added:  “It will be soon.”

“Thou hast said the same aforetime, Robin.  Yet it has not so fallen out.”

“She has clung to life beyond what could have been believed of her condition,” he explained, unconscious of any sinister ambiguity.  “But the end, I know, is very near ­a matter but of days.”

“Of days!” she shivered, and moved forward to the edge of the terrace, he keeping step beside her.  Then she stood awhile in silence, looking down at the dark oily surge of water.  “You loved her once, Robin?” she asked, in a queer, unnatural voice.

“I never loved but once,” answered that perfect courtier.

“Yet you married her ­men say it was a love marriage.  It was a marriage, anyway, and you can speak so calmly of her death?” Her tone was brooding.  She sought understanding that should silence her own lingering doubt of him.

“Where lies the blame?  Who made me what I am?” Again his bold arm encompassed her.  Side by side they peered down through the gloom at the rushing waters, and he seized an image from them.  “Our love is like that seething tide,” he said.  “To resist it is to labour in agony awhile, and then to perish.”

“And to yield is to be swept away.”

“To happiness,” he cried, and reverted to his earlier prayer.  “Say that when... that afterwards, I may claim you for my own.  Be true to yourself, obey the voice of instinct, and so win to happiness.”

She looked up at him, seeking to scan the handsome face in that dim light that baffled her, and he observed the tumultuous heave of her white breast.

“Can I trust thee, Robin?  Can I trust thee?  Answer me true!” she implored him, adorably weak, entirely woman now.

“What does your own heart answer you?” quoth he, loaning close above her.

“I think I can, Robin.  And, anyway, I must.  I cannot help myself.  I am but a woman, after all,” she murmured, and sighed.  “Be it as thou wilt.  Come to me again when thou art free.”

He bent lower, murmuring incoherently, and she put up a hand to pat his swarthy bearded cheek.

“I shall make thee greater than any man in England, so thou make me happier than any woman.”

He caught the hand in his and kissed it passionately, his soul singing a triumph song within him.  Norfolk and Sussex and those other scowling ones should soon be whistled to the master’s heel.

As they turned arm in arm into the gallery to retrace their steps, they came suddenly face to face with a slim, sleek gentleman, who bowed profoundly, a smile upon h is crafty, shaven, priestly face.  In a smooth voice and an accent markedly foreign, he explained that he, too, sought the cool of the terrace, not thinking to intrude; and upon that, bowing again, he passed on and effaced himself.  It was Alvarez de Quadra, Bishop of Aquila, the argus-eyed ambassador of Spain.

The young face of the Queen hardened.

“I would I were as well served abroad as the King of Spain is here,” she said aloud, that the retreating ambassador might hear the dubious compliment; and for my lord’s ear alone she added under her breath:  “The spy!  Philip of Spain will hear of this.”

“So that he hears something more, what shall it signify?” quoth my lord, and laughed.

They paced the length of the gallery in silence, past the yeoman of the guard, who kept his watch, and into the first antechamber.  Perhaps it was that meeting with de Quadra and my lord’s answer to her comment that prompted what now she asked:  “What is it ails her, Robin?”

“A wasting sickness,” he answered, never doubting to whom the question alluded.

“You said, I think, that... that the end is very near.”

He caught her meaning instantly.  “Indeed, if she is not dead already, she is very nearly so.”

He lied, for never had Amy Dudley been in better health.  And yet he spoke the truth, for in so much as her life depended upon his will, it was as good as spent.  This was, he knew, a decisive moment of his career.  The hour was big with fate.  If now he were weak or hesitant, the chance might slip away and be for ever lost to him.  Elizabeth’s moods were as uncertain as were certain the hostile activities of my lord’s enemies.  He must strike quickly whilst she was in her present frame of mind, and bring her to wedlock, be it in public or in private.  But first he must shake off the paralysing encumbrance of that house-wife down at Cumnor.

I believe ­from evidence that I account abundant ­that he considered it with the cold remorselessness of the monstrous egotist he was.  An upstart, great-grandson to a carpenter, noble only in two descents, and in both of them stained by the block, he found a queen ­the victim of a physical passion that took no account of the worthlessness underlying his splendid exterior ­reaching out a hand to raise him to a throne.  Being what he was, he weighed his young wife’s life at naught in the evil scales of his ambition.  And yet he had loved her once, more truly perhaps than he could now pretend to love the Queen.

It was some ten years since, as a lad of eighteen, he had taken Sir John Robsart’s nineteen-year-old daughter to wife.  She had brought him considerable wealth and still more devotion.  Because of this devotion she was content to spend her days at Cumnor, whilst he ruffled it at court; content to take such crumbs of attention as he could spare her upon occasion.  And during the past year, whilst he had been plotting her death, she had been diligently caring for his interests and fostering the prosperity of the Berkshire estate.  If he thought of this at all, he allowed no weakly sentiment to turn him from his purpose.  There was too much at stake for that ­a throne, no less.

And so, on the morning after that half-surrender of Elizabeth’s, we find my lord closeted with his henchman, Sir Richard Verney.  Sir Richard ­like his master ­was a greedy, unscrupulous, ambitious scoundrel, prepared to go to any lengths for the sake of such worldly advancement as it lay in my lord’s power to give him.  My lord perforce used perfect frankness with this perfect servant.

“Thou’lt rise or fall with me, Dick,” quoth he.  “Help me up, then, and so mount with me.  When I am King, as soon now I shall be, look to me.  Now to the thing that is to do.  Thou’lt have guessed it.”

To Sir Richard it was an easy guess, considering how much already he had been about this business.  He signified as much.

My lord shifted in his elbow-chair, and drew his embroidered bedgown of yellow satin closer about his shapely limbs.

“Hast failed me twice before, Richard,” said he.  “God’s death, man, fail me not again, or the last chance may go the way of the others.  There’s a magic in the number three.  See that I profit by it, or I am undone, and thou with me.”

“I’d not have failed before, but for that suspicious dotard Bayley,” grumbled Verney.  “Your lordship bade me see that all was covered.”

“Aye, aye.  And I bid thee so again.  On thy life, leave no footprints by which we may be tracked.  Bayley is not the only physician in Oxford.  About it, then, and swiftly.  Time is the very soul of fortune in this business, with the Spaniard straining at the leash, and Cecil and the rest pleading his case with her.  Succeed, and thy fortune’s made; fail, and trouble not to seek me again.”

Sir Richard bowed, and took his leave.  As he reached the door, his lordship stayed him.  “If thou bungle, do not look to me.  The court goes to Windsor to-morrow.  Bring me word there within the week.”  He rose, magnificently tall and stately, in his bedgown of embroidered yellow satin, his handsome head thrown back, and went after his retainer.  “Thou’lt not fail me, Dick,” said he, a hand upon the lesser scoundrel’s shoulder.  “There is much at issue for me, and for thee with me.”

“I will not fail you, my lord,” Sir Richard rashly promised, and on that they parted.

Sir Richard did not mean to fail.  He knew the importance of succeeding, and he appreciated the urgency of the business as much as did my lord himself.  But between his cold, remorseless will to succeed and success itself there lay a gulf which it needed all his resource to bridge.  He paid a short visit to Lady Robert at Cumnor, and professed deepest concern to find in her a pallor and an ailing air which no one else had yet observed.  He expressed himself on the subject to Mrs. Buttelar and the other members of her ladyship’s household, reproaching them with their lack of care of their mistress.  Mrs. Buttelar became indignant under his reproaches.

“Nay, now, Sir Richard, do you wonder that my lady is sad and downcast with such tales as are going of my lord’s doings at court, and of what there is ’twixt the Queen and him?  Her ladyship may be too proud to complain, but she suffers the more for that, poor lamb.  There was talk of a divorce awhile ago that got to her ears.”

“Old wives’ tales,” snorted Sir Richard.

“Likely,” agreed Mrs. Buttelar.  “Yet when my lord neither comes to Cumnor, nor requires her ladyship to go to him, what is she to think, poor soul?”

Sir Richard made light of all, and went off to Oxford to find a physician more accommodating than Dr. Bayley.  But Dr. Bayley had talked too much, and it was in vain that Sir Richard pleaded with each of the two physicians he sought that her ladyship was ailing ­“sad and heavy” ­and that he must have a potion for her.

Each in turn shook his head.  They had no medicine for sorrow, was their discreet answer.  From his description of her condition, said each, it was plain that her ladyship’s sickness was of the mind, and, considering the tales that were afloat, neither was surprised.

Sir Richard went back to his Oxford lodging with the feeling of a man checkmated.  For two whole days of that precious time he lay there considering what to do.  He thought of going to seek a physician in Abingdon.  But fearing no better success in that quarter, fearing, indeed, that in view of the rumours abroad he would merely be multiplying what my lord called “footprints,” he decided to take some other way to his master’s ends.  He was a resourceful, inventive scoundrel, and soon he had devised a plan.

On Friday he wrote from Oxford to Lady Robert, stating that he had a communication for her on the subject of his lordship as secret as it was urgent.  That he desired to come to her at Cumnor again, but dared not do so openly.  He would come if she would contrive that her servants should be absent, and he exhorted her to let no one of them know that he was coming, else he might be ruined, out of his desire to serve her.

That letter he dispatched by the hand of his servant Nunweek, desiring him to bring an answer.  It was a communication that had upon her ladyship’s troubled mind precisely the effect that the rascal conceived.  There was about Sir Richard’s personality nothing that could suggest the villain.  He was a smiling, blue-eyed, florid gentleman, of a kindly manner that led folk to trust him.  And on the occasion of his late visit to Cumnor he had displayed such tender solicitude that her ladyship ­starved of affection as she was ­had been deeply touched.

His letter so cunningly couched filled her with vague alarm and with anxiety.  She had heard so many and such afflicting rumours, and had received in my lord’s cruel neglect of her such circumstantial confirmation of them, that she fastened avidly upon what she deemed the chance of learning at last the truth.  Sir Richard Verney had my lord’s confidence, and was much about the court in his attendance upon my lord.  He would know the truth, and what could this letter mean but that he was disposed to tell it.

So she sent him back a line in answer, bidding him come on Sunday afternoon.  She would contrive to be alone in the house, so that he need not fear being seen by any.

As she promised, so she performed, and on the Sunday packed off her household to the fair that was being held at Abingdon that day, using insistence with the reluctant, and particularly with one of her women, a Mrs. Oddingsell, who expressed herself strongly against leaving her ladyship alone in that lonely house.  At length, however, the last of them was got off, and my lady was left impatiently to await her secret visitor.  It was late afternoon when he arrived, accompanied by Nunweek, whom he left to hold the horses under the chestnuts in the avenue.  Himself he reached the house across the garden, where the blighting hand of autumn was already at work.

Within the porch he found her waiting, fretted by her impatience.

“It is very good in you to have come, Sir Richard,” was her gracious greeting.

“I am your ladyship’s devoted servant,” was his sufficient answer, and he doffed his plumed bonnet, and bowed low before her.  “We shall be private in your bower above stairs,” he added.

“Why, we are private anywhere.  I am all alone, as you desired.”

“That is very wise ­most wise,” said he.  “Will your ladyship lead the way?”

So they went up that steep, spiral staircase, which had loomed so prominently in the plans the ingenious scoundrel had evolved.  Across the gallery on the first floor they entered a little room whose windows overlooked the garden.  This was her bower ­an intimate cosy room, reflecting on every hand the gentle, industrious personality of the owner.  On an oak table near the window were spread some papers and account-books concerned with the estate ­with which she had sought to beguile the time of waiting.  She led the way towards this, and, sinking into the high-backed chair that stood before it, she looked up at him expectantly.  She was pale, there were dark stains under her eyes, and wistful lines had crept into the sweet face of that neglected wife.

Contemplating his poor victim now, Sir Richard may have compared her with the woman by whom my lord desired so impatiently to supplant her.  She was tall and beautifully shaped, despite an almost maidenly slenderness.  Her countenance was gentle and adorable, with its soft grey eyes and light brown hair, and tender, wistful mouth.

It was not difficult to believe that Lord Robert had as ardently desired her to wife five years ago as he now desired to be rid of her.  Then he obeyed the insistent spur of passion; now he obeyed the remorseless spur of ambition.  In reality, then as now, his beacon-light was love of self.

Seeing her so frail and trusting, trembling in her anxious impatience to hear the news of her lord which he had promised her, Sir Richard may have felt some pang of pity.  But, like my lord, he was of those whose love of self suffers the rivalry of no weak emotion.

“Your news, Sir Richard,” she besought him, her dove-like glance upon his florid face ­less florid now than was its wont.

He leaned against the table, his back to the window.  “Why, it is briefly this,” said he.  “My lord...”  And then he checked, and fell into a listening attitude.

“What was that?  Did you hear anything, my lady?”

“No.  What is it?” Her face betrayed alarm, her anxiety mounting under so much mystery.

“Sh!  Stay you here,” he enjoined.  “If we are spied upon...”  He left the sentence there.  Already he was moving quickly, stealthily, towards the door.  He paused before opening it.  “Stay where you are, my lady,” he enjoined again, so gravely that she could have no thought of disobeying him.  “I will return at once.”

He stepped out, closed the door, and crossed to the stairs.  There he stopped.  From his pouch he had drawn a fine length of whipcord, attached at one end to a tiny bodkin of needle sharpness.  That bodkin he drove into the edge of one of the panels of the wainscot, in line with the topmost step; drawing the cord taut at a height of a foot or so above this step, he made fast its other end to the newel-post at the stair-head.  He had so rehearsed the thing in his mind that the performance of it occupied but a few seconds.  Such dim light of that autumn afternoon as reached the spot would leave that fine cord invisible.

Sir Richard went back to her ladyship.  She had not moved in his absence, so brief as scarcely to have left her time in which to resolve upon disobeying his injunction.

“We move in secret like conspirators,” said he, “and so we are easily affrighted..  I should have known it could be none but my lord himself... here?”

“My lord!” she interrupted, coming excitedly to her feet.  “Lord Robert?”

“To be sure, my lady.  It was he had need to visit you in secret ­for did the Queen have knowledge of his coming here, it would mean the Tower for him.  You cannot think what, out of love for you, his lordship suffers.  The Queen...

“But do you say that he is here, man,” her voice shrilled up in excitement.

“He is below, my lady.  Such is his peril that he dared not set foot in Cumnor until he was certain beyond doubt that you are here alone.”

“He is below!” she cried, and a flush dyed her pale cheeks, a light of gladness quickened her sad eyes.  Already she had gathered from his cunning words a new and comforting explanation of the things reported to her.  “He is below!” she repeated.  “Oh!” She turned from him, and in an instant was speeding towards the door.

He stood rooted there, his nether lip between his teeth, his face a ghastly white, whilst she ran on.

“My lord!  Robin!  Robin!” he heard her calling, as she crossed the corridor.  Then came a piercing scream that echoed through the silent house; a pause; a crashing thud below; and ­silence.

Sir Richard remained by the table, immovable.  Blood was trickling down his chin.  He had sunk his teeth through his lip when that scream rang out.  A long moment thus, as if entranced, awe-stricken.  Then he braced himself, and went forward, reeling at first like a drunken man.  But by the time he had reached the stairs he was master of himself again.  Swiftly, for all his trembling fingers, he unfastened the cord’s end from the newel-post.  The wrench upon it had already pulled the bodkin from the wainscot.  He went down that abrupt spiral staircase at a moderate pace, mechanically coiling the length of whip-cord, and bestowing it with the bodkin in his pouch again, and all the while his eyes were fixed upon the grey bundle that lay so still at the stairs’ foot.

He came to it at last, and, pausing, looked more closely.  He was thankful that there was not the need to touch it.  The position of the brown-haired head was such as to leave no doubt of the complete success of his design.  Her neck was broken.  Lord Robert Dudley was free to marry the Queen.

Deliberately Sir Richard stepped over the huddled body of that poor victim of a knave’s ambition, crossed the hall, and passed out, closing the door.  An excellent day’s work, thought he, most excellently accomplished.  The servants, returning from Abingdon Fair on that Sunday evening, would find her there.  They would publish the fact that in their absence her ladyship had fallen downstairs and broken her neck, and that was the end of the matter.

But that was not the end at all.  Fate, the ironic interloper, had taken a hand in this evil game.

The court had moved a few days earlier to Windsor, and thither on the Friday ­the 6th of September ­came Alvarez de Quadra to seek the definite answer which the Queen had promised him on the subject of the Spanish marriage.  What he had seen that night at Whitehall, coupled with his mistrust of her promises and experience of her fickleness, had rendered him uneasy.  Either she was trifling with him, or else she was behaving in a manner utterly unbecoming the future wife of the Archduke.  In either case some explanation was necessary.  De Quadra must know where he stood.  Having failed to obtain an audience before the court left London, he had followed it to Windsor, cursing all women and contemplating the advantages of the Salic law.

He found at Windsor an atmosphere of constraint, and it was not until the morrow that he obtained an audience with the Queen.  Even then this was due to chance rather than to design on the part of Elizabeth.  For they met on the terrace as she was returning from hunting.  She dismissed those about her, including the stalwart Robert Dudley, and, alone with de Quadra, invited him to speak.

“Madame,” he said, “I am writing to my master, and I desire to know whether your Majesty would wish me to add anything to what you have announced already as your intention regarding the Archduke.”

She knit her brows.  The wily Spaniard fenced so closely that there was no alternative but to come to grips.

“Why, sir,” she answered dryly, “you may tell his Majesty that I have come to an absolute decision, which is that I will not marry the Archduke.”

The colour mounted to the Spaniard’s sallow cheeks.  Iron self-control alone saved him from uttering unpardonable words.  Even so he spoke sternly: 

“This, madame, is not what you had led me to believe when last we talked upon the subject.”

At another time Elizabeth might have turned upon him and rent him for that speech.  But it happened that she was in high good-humour that afternoon, and disposed to indulgence.  She laughed, surveying herself in the small steel mirror that dangled from her waist.

“You are ungallant to remind me, my lord,” said she.  “My sex, you may have heard, is privileged to change of mind.”

“Then, madame, I pray that you may change it yet again.”  His tone was bitter.

“Your prayer will not be heard.  This time I am resolved.”

De Quadra bowed.  “The King, my master, will not be pleased, I fear.”

She looked him straightly in the face, her dark eyes kindling.

“God’s death!” said she, “I marry to please myself, and not the King your master.”

“You are resolved on marriage then?” flashed he.

“And it please you,” she mocked him archly, her mood of joyousness already conquering her momentary indignation.

“What pleases you must please me also, madame,” he answered, in a tone so cold that it belied his words.  “That it please you, is reason enough why you should marry...  Whom did your Majesty say?”

“Nay.  I named no names.  Yet one so astute might hazard a shrewd guess.”  Half-challenging, half-coy, she eyed him over her fan.

“A guess?  Nay, madame.  I might affront your Majesty.”

“How so?”

“If I were deluded by appearances.  If I named a subject who signally enjoys your royal favour.”

“You mean Lord Robert Dudley.”  She paled a little, and her bosom’s heave was quickened.  “Why should the guess affront me?”

“Because a queen ­a wise queen, madame ­does not mate with a subject ­particularly with one who has a wife already.”

He had stung her.  He had wounded at once the pride of the woman and the dignity of the queen, yet in a way that made it difficult for her to take direct offense.  She bit her lip and mastered her surge of anger.  Then she laughed, a thought sneeringly.

“Why, as to my Lord Robert’s wife, it seems you are less well-informed than usual, sir.  Lady Robert Dudley is dead, or very nearly so.”

And as blank amazement overspread his face, she passed upon her way and left him.

But anon, considering, she grew vaguely uneasy, and that very night expressed her afflicting doubt to my lord, reporting to him de Quadra’s words.  His lordship, who was mentally near-sighted, laughed.

“He’ll change his tone before long,” said he.

She set her hands upon his shoulders, and looked up adoringly into his handsome gipsy face.  Never had he known her so fond as in these last days since her surrender to him that night upon the terrace at Whitehall, never had she been more the woman and less the queen in her bearing towards him.

“You are sure, Robin?  You are quite sure?” she pleaded.

He drew her close, she yielding herself to his embrace.  “With so much at stake could I be less than sure, sweet?” said he, and so convinced her ­the more easily since he afforded her the conviction she desired.

That was on the night of Saturday, and early on Monday came the news which justified him of his assurances.  It was brought him to Windsor by one of Amy’s Cumnor servants, a fellow named Bowes, who, with the others, had been away at Abingdon Fair yesterday afternoon, and had returned to find his mistress dead at the stairs’ foot ­the result of an accident, as all believed.

It was not quite the news that my lord had been expecting.  It staggered him a little that an accident so very opportune should have come to resolve his difficulties, obviating the need for recourse to those more dangerous measures with which he had charged Sir Richard Verney.  He perceived how suspicion might now fall upon himself, how his enemies would direct it, and on the instant made provision.  There and then he seized a pen, and wrote to his kinsman, Sir Thomas Blount, who even then was on his way to Cumnor.  He stated in the letter what he had learnt from Bowes, bade Blount engage the coroner to make the strictest investigation, and send for Amy’s natural brother, Appleyard.  “Have no respect to any living person,” was the final injunction of that letter which he sent Blount by the hand of Bowes.

And, then, before he could carry to the Queen the news of this accident which had broken his matrimonial shackles, Sir Richard Verney arrived with the true account.  He had expected praise and thanks from his master.  Instead, he met first dismay, and then anger and fierce reproaches.

“My lord, this is unjust,” the faithful retainer protested.  “Knowing the urgency, I took the only way ­contrived the accident.”

“Pray God,” said Dudley, “that the jury find it to have been an accident; for if the truth should come to be discovered, I leave you to the consequences.  I warned you of that before you engaged in this.  Look for no help from me.”

“I look for none,” said Sir Richard, stung to hot contempt by the meanness and cowardice so characteristic of the miserable egotist he served.  “Nor will there be the need, for I have left no footprints.

“I hope that may be so, for I tell you, man, that I have ordered a strict inquiry, bidding them have no respect to any living person, and to that I shall adhere.”

“And if, in spite of that, I am not hanged?” quoth Sir Richard, a sneer upon his white face.

“Come to me again when the affair is closed, and we will talk of it.”

Sir Richard went out, rage and disgust in his heart, leaving my lord with rage and fear in his.

Grown calmer now, my lord dressed himself with care and sought the Queen to tell her of the accident that had removed the obstacle to their marriage.  And that same night her Majesty coldly informed de Quadra that Lady Robert Dudley had fallen down a flight of stairs and broken her neck.

The Spaniard received the information with a countenance that was inscrutable.

“Your Majesty’s gift of prophecy is not so widely known as it deserves to be,” was his cryptic comment.

She stared at him blankly a moment.  Then a sudden uneasy memory awakened by his words, she drew him forward to a window embrasure apart from those who had stood about her, and for greater security addressed him, as he tells us, in Italian.

“I do not think I understand you, sir.  Will you be plain with me?” She stood erect and stiff, and frowned upon him after the manner of her bullying father.  But de Quadra held the trumps, and was not easily intimidated.

“About the prophecy?” said he.  “Why, did not your Majesty foretell the poor lady’s death a full day before it came to pass?  Did you not say that she was already dead, or nearly so?”

He saw her blench; saw fear stare from those dark eyes that could be so very bold.  Then her ever-ready anger followed swiftly.

“’Sblood, man!  What do you imply?” she cried, and went on without waiting for his answer.  “The poor woman was sick and ill, and must soon have succumbed; it will no doubt be found that the accident which anticipated nature was due to her condition.”

Gently he shook his head, relishing her discomfiture, taking satisfaction in torturing her who had flouted him and his master, in punishing her whom he had every reason to believe guilty.

“Your Majesty, I fear, has been ill-informed on that score.  The poor lady was in excellent health ­and like to have lived for many years ­at least, so I gather from Sir William Cecil, whose information is usually exact.”

She clutched his arm.  “You told him what I had said?”

“It was indiscreet, perhaps.  Yet, how was I to know...?” He left his sentence there.  “I but expressed my chagrin at your decision on the score of the Archduke ­hardly a wise decision, if I may be so bold,” he added slyly.

She caught the suggestion of a bargain, and became instantly suspicious.

“You transcend the duties of your office, my lord,” she rebuked him, and turned away.

But soon that night she was closeted with Dudley, and closely questioning him about the affair.  My lord was mightily vehement.

“I take Heaven to be my witness,” quoth he, when she all but taxed him with having procured his lady’s death, “that I am innocent of any part in it.  My injunctions to Blount, who has gone to Cumnor, are that the matter be sifted without respect to any person, and if it can be shown that this is other than the accident I deem it, the murderer shall hang.”

She flung her arms about his neck, and laid her head on his shoulder.  “Oh, Robin, Robin, I am full of fears,” she wailed, and was nearer to tears than he had ever seen her.

But, anon, as the days passed their fears diminished, and finally the jury at Cumnor ­delayed in their finding, and spurred by my lord to exhaustive inquiries ­returned a verdict of “found dead,” which in all the circumstances left his lordship ­who was known, moreover, to have been at Windsor when his lady died ­fully acquitted.  Both he and the Queen took courage from that finding, and made no secret of it now that they would very soon be wed.

But there were many whom that finding did not convince, who read my lord too well, and would never suffer him to reap the fruits of his evil deed.  Prominent among these were Arundel ­who himself had aimed at the Queen’s hand ­Norfolk and Pembroke, and behind them was a great mass of the people.  Indignation against Lord Robert was blazing out, fanned by such screaming preachers as Lever, who, from the London pulpits, denounced the projected marriage, hinting darkly at the truth of Amy Dudley’s death.

What was hinted at home was openly expressed abroad, and in Paris Mary Stuart ventured a cruel witticism that Elizabeth was to conserve in her memory:  “The Queen of England,” she said, “is about to marry her horse-keeper, who has killed his wife to make a place for her.”

Yet Elizabeth persisted in her intent to marry Dudley, until the sober Cecil conveyed to her towards the end of that month of September some notion of the rebellion that was smouldering.

She flared out at him, of course.  But he stood his ground.

“There is,” he reminded her, “this unfortunate matter of a prophecy, as the Bishop of Aquila persists in calling it.”

“God’s Body!  Is the rogue blabbing?”

“What else did your Majesty expect from a man smarting under a sense of injury?  He has published it broadcast that on the day before Lady Robert broke her neck, you told him that she was dead or nearly so.  And he argues from it a guilty foreknowledge on your Majesty’s part of what was planned.”

“A guilty foreknowledge!” She almost choked in rage, and then fell to swearing as furiously in that moment as old King Harry at his worst.

“Madame!” he cried, shaken by her vehemence.  “I but report the phrase he uses.  It is not mine.”

“Do you believe it?”

“I do not, madame.  If I did I should not be here at present.”

“Does any subject of mine believe it?”

“They suspend their judgment.  They wait to learn the truth from the sequel.”

“You mean?”

“That if your motive prove to be such as de Quadra and others allege, they will be in danger of believing.”

“Be plain, man, in God’s name.  What exactly is alleged?”

He obeyed her very fully.

“That my lord contrived the killing of his wife so that he might have liberty to marry your Majesty, and that your Majesty was privy to the deed.”  He spoke out boldly, and hurried on before she could let loose her wrath.  “It is still in your power, madame, to save your honour, which is now in peril.  But there is only one way in which you can accomplish it.  If you put from you all thought of marrying Lord Robert, England will believe that de Quadra and those others lied.  If you persist and carry out your intention, you proclaim the truth of his report; and you see what must inevitably follow.”

She saw indeed, and, seeing, was afraid.

Within a few hours of that interview she delivered her answer to Cecil, which was that she had no intention of marrying Dudley.

Because of her fear she saved her honour by sacrificing her heart, by renouncing marriage with the only man she could have taken for her mate of all who had wooed her.  Yet the wound of that renunciation was slow to heal.  She trifled with the notion of other marriages, but ever and anon, in her despair, perhaps, we see her turning longing eyes towards the handsome Lord Robert, later made Earl of Leicester.  Once, indeed, some six years after Amy’s death, there was again some talk of her marrying him, which was quickly quelled by a reopening of the question of how Amy died.  Between these two, between the fulfilment of her desire and his ambition, stood the irreconcilable ghost of his poor murdered wife.

Perhaps it was some thought of this that found expression in her passionate outburst when she learnt of the birth of Mary Stuart’s child:  “The Queen of Scots is lighter of a fair son; and I am but a barren stock.”