I waited patiently for the jury's verdict. I guessed it would be what we wanted. How could it be otherwise? Accident? Suicide? Either would do, but accident was better. Murder it must never be called.

It was—as I had known it would be—a foregone conclusion. The jury would not want to offend a man as powerful as Robert was—nor did they wish to displease me. So there was only one verdict.

Amy Robsart's maid, Mistress Pinto, who had been with her for many years and who was devoted to her, did hint at her mistress's suffering. The theory of a growth in the breast was brought up. It could have been suicide. Suicide or accident, it did not greatly matter.

So the verdict was accidental death. Cecil was relieved; Robert was overjoyed; but I was sober. I did not think the matter could be so neatly dealt with as that.

ROBERT RETURNED TO COURT. No one dared mention the matter of Lady Dudley's death in his presence or mine, but that did not prevent its being frequently spoken of and I doubt whether many believed the coroner's verdict. Robert was watched even more attentively than before. He had acquired a new reputation—one which set men making sure they did not offend him. Clearly they thought he was a man who had the ability to remove those who stood in his way. I tried to behave as though nothing had happened. I wanted to give the impression that Robert was just a good subject who had rather special gifts and that was why I favored him.

He was constantly at my side and I talked to him of matters of State. He had a good grasp of these and he always looked at them with an eye to the advantage of the crown. During that time Robert was so certain that he would soon be sharing it that he could not stop himself behaving like a king.

I was tender toward him. I was sorry for all the suspicion which had been directed at him. If he were indeed innocent that would be galling for there is nothing so maddening as to be accused of something one has not done. And if he had murdered his wife… well then, he had done that for me. And I had led him on, tempting him perhaps too far.

I could not help my feelings, but I was more alive when I was in his company than that of anyone else. If he were absent, then I found the company dull. I liked his dark looks, his magnificent vital presence; I liked his arrogance; I liked his persistence and his ability to withdraw himself with an air of unconcern from an intolerable situation such as the one which had recently threatened to destroy him.

I was no less in love with Robert Dudley after his wife's death than I had been before.

Constantly he urged marriage.

“How could we,” I demanded, “while there are rumors in the air?”

“If you do not marry me people will say it is because you do not believe in my innocence.”

“But if I do, might they not believe in my guilt?” I went on: “Robin, this matter has caused grievous harm to us both.”

“Nonsense,” he replied, for there were times when he seemed to forget that I was the Queen, and I did not always reprove him. In fact I liked his insolence. It was all part of that overwhelming masculinity which so appealed to the feminine side of my nature. “It has done us great good. It has cleared the way for us.”

At such times I thought: Yes, he is guilty. He arranged for that poor woman to fall down the staircase.

I could easily believe that, and yet it made no difference.

Cecil continued to be concerned about my unmarried state.

Time was passing, he said. I must produce an heir. Was I going to put off marriage until it was too late for me to bear children?

“I have many years before me yet, I would remind you,” I retorted.

“Madam,” he replied, “the people look for it.”

I prevaricated and Cecil was too shrewd not to know what I was doing.

“I would agree to marriage with Robert Dudley, Madam,” he said, “for I truly believe that in your fondness for him you would quickly conceive.”

I was amazed.

“The scandal concerning his late wife is too recent,” I said.

“I know. I know. Perhaps a secret marriage. Once the heir was born, the people would be ready to love you again.”

“They will love me,” I said firmly. “Give me time.”

“Marriage is the answer and if it must be Robert Dudley, then so be it.”

Perhaps he had thought such a suggestion would make me wild with joy. It did not.

I said: “Not yet. Not yet. I will decide in my own time.”

I think I had already decided. Much as I loved Robert I knew his nature. He yearned to be King and once I married him he would be. He was too sure of himself. One would think he was there already. No! I wanted no man to stand beside me. I would be sovereign, and I alone.

Moreover, I had to win back the people's trust, and I would never do that if I married Robert Dudley.

When I came to think of it, the death of Robert's wife was the greatest lesson I was ever likely to learn and if I did not take advantage of that, I deserved to lose my crown.

THE LADIES OF MY BEDCHAMBER WERE A CHARMING AND handsome company of women. I should not have chosen them if they had not been. I was very susceptible to beauty in both men and women. I liked to have good-looking people around me. I had sufficient personal attraction myself not to be jealous of a pretty woman, and as I was surrounded by an aura of royalty, I must outshine them all.

The three who pleased me best were Mary Sidney, Jane Seymour and Lettice Knollys—and all for different reasons.

Mary Sidney was a dear affectionate creature, and as she was Robert's sister that made a special bond between us. Mary loved all her family but there was no doubt who was her special favorite. She was able to tell me little anecdotes from his childhood and we would laugh together over his boldness like two doting parents. Mary was such a faithful creature and I liked Henry Sidney, her husband, whom I had known since his boyhood. When my brother Edward had come to the throne, he had been made one of the principal gentlemen of the Privy Chamber. He had obviously been seen as a rising star since Northumberland had chosen him to marry his daughter Mary. It was a happy marriage, Mary being such a gentle, loving girl who, I suppose, would have made a success of most relationships. She certainly had become one of my dearest companions.

Lady Jane Seymour was another gentle girl. I took to her because she was Thomas Seymour's niece and I was sorry for her because both her father and uncle had gone to the block. I felt sympathy for the children who had been thus deprived of a parent—perhaps because I had myself. Jane was a very delicate girl and I was always scolding her about not taking more care of her health. In one matter she did not altogether please me and that was in her friendship with Lady Katharine Grey. Katharine gave herself airs. The silly little creature thought she had more right to the throne than I had, and it had been brought back to me—not by Jane Seymour I hasten to say—that she had said she should have been declared next in succession. I supposed there were some few who would agree that she should. But then there were some who talked of Mary of Scotland, not only as the next Queen but the rightful one. I was always on my guard against successors to the throne, for I imagined they were always casting covetous eyes on the present occupier. Moreover, clever people had a habit of paying court to such, and if too much favor was shown to them it might well be that they would wish to speed up the inheritance.

No! I did not like successors to the throne—unless of course one should be the natural heir of my body, which was very unlikely in my present mood or, I was inclined to think, my mood hereafter. Even some sons had tried to replace their fathers. Successors were a breed to be avoided rather than cultivated and I decided to keep a watchful eye on Katharine Grey. And the one thing which prevented my complete confidence in Jane Seymour was her close friendship with Katharine Grey.