Yet she knew that during the whole of her life she would never forget him.

One of the maids came to her and said that Master Blount wished to question her as he was questioning the whole household.

The maid’s face was alive with eagerness. She whispered: “He is trying to prove it was an accident. Lord Robert has sent him to do so. But … how can they prove that … and what will happen now to my lord?”

What would happen to him now?

Pinto was excited suddenly because she felt that there was within her a power to decide what should happen to him.

She could tell the truth; she could tell of the plan she had made with Amy. That would not help Lord Robert. But there was one explanation which was not incredible. No one would believe Amy’s death was due to an accident; but might they not believe in that one alternative to murder: suicide?

That would not endear Lord Robert to the people; he would still have his detractors; but at the same time a man who neglected his wife to serve his sovereign was not on that account a criminal.

She stood before Thomas Blount, who studied her intently. A personable creature of her kind, he thought; and one whose grief showed her to have had a real affection for the dead woman.

“Mistress Pinto, you loved your mistress dearly.”

“Yes, sir.”

“What do you think of her death? Was it an accident or was it caused through villainy?”

Pinto hesitated briefly. It seemed as though he were there beside her. He was made for distinction. She was making excuses for him. He had been tempted and, weakly, he had been unable to resist. It seemed to her that he was pleading for her help, he who had never asked her for anything. What woman had ever been able to resist him? And it was in her power to give him more than any had ever given him before.

Her mind was made up. She couched her answer in carefully chosen words.

“Sir, it was an accident. I am sure it was an accident. She would not have done such a thing herself. Never!”

Eagerly he seized on her words. This was the first suggestion of suicide. Here was a way out that he had not foreseen.

“Tell me,” he said, gently, “why should you think she might have done it herself, Mistress Pinto?”

“Oh, but I do not!” Pinto stared at him wildly, like a woman who has betrayed that which she had planned to hide. “She was a good woman. She prayed to God to save her from the consequences of desperation. She would have committed no such sin as taking her own life.”

“Had she some idea in her mind of destroying herself?”

“Nay, nay! It is true that there were times when she was so wretched that …”

“She was sick was she not?”

“She had troubles.”

“Troubles of the body as well as of the mind?”

“Lord Robert came so rarely to see her.”

They watched each other—he and Pinto, both alert.

He was thinking: Suicide! The next best thing to accident. He was framing his story. “Amy Dudley was suffering from a disease of the breast which she knew was killing her. It was painful, and she decided she would endure it no more. She sent her servants to the Fair so that, on that Sunday morning, she might end her life. A strange way in which to kill oneself? A fall from a staircase might not have meant death? Oh, but Amy’s state was one of hysteria. She would hardly have been aware of what she was doing. She longed for the company of her husband, but owing to his duties at Court he could not visit her as often as he would have wished. So, poor hysterical woman, she had sent her servants to the Fair that she might have a quiet house in which to kill herself.”

A sad story, but one which could cast no reflection on Lord Robert and the Queen.

Pinto was conscious of the triumph of a woman who loves and serves the loved one—even though she does so in secret.

On a warm Sunday morning, two weeks after she had died, Amy’s body was carried to the Church of St. Mary the Virgin in Oxford. The funeral was a grand one. It was as though Robert was determined to make up for his neglect of her during her lifetime by lavish display now that she was dead. There was a procession of several hundred people; and Amy’s halfbrother, John Appleyard, as he walked with other relations of hers and the students from the University, was filled with bitter thoughts. He had loved his young sister dearly, and he deeply resented her death; for nothing would convince him that it had not been arranged by her husband.

While the bell tolled, while the funeral sermon was being preached, John Appleyard’s heart was filled with hatred toward Robert Dudley.

There were others at the funeral who felt as John did.

There were many who would have wished to see Robert Dudley hanged for what he had done to an innocent woman who had had the misfortune to marry him and stand between him and his illicit passion for the Queen.

So Amy was laid to rest.

But although the jury had brought in a verdict of Death by Accident, all over the country people were talking of the mysterious death of Amy Dudley, and asking one another what part her husband and the Queen had played in it.

Robert was hopeful and expectant. Surely the Queen must marry him now that he was free.

As for the Queen, she wanted to marry him. This terrible thing which had happened had not altered her love. She was defiantly proud, exulting in the fact that he had put himself in such jeopardy for love of her. He was a strong man and there was in him all that she looked for. He was ready to marry her and face their critics; he was defiant and unafraid.

But her experiences had made her cautious. She wanted him, but she had no intention of losing her crown.

She could snap her fingers at Cecil, at Bacon, at Norfolk and Philip of Spain; but she must always consider the people of England.

Reports from all quarters were alarming. The French were saying that she could not continue to reign. How could she—a Queen who permitted a subject to kill his wife in order to marry her! The throne was tottering, said the French. They may have been beaten in Scotland, but soon it would be Elizabeth who suffered defeat. A people as proud as the English would never allow a murderess and an adulteress to reign over them.

When she rode out, her subjects were no longer spontaneous in their greetings.

All over the world there was gossip concerning the Queen and her paramour; lewd jokes were bandied about as once they had been with regard to the Princess Elizabeth and Thomas Seymour; stories were invented of the children she had borne her lover; she was spoken of as though she were a harlot instead of the Queen of a great country.

She was perplexed and undecided. There were times when she longed to turn to Robert and say “Let us marry and take the consequences.” At others she was reluctant to take any further risk. Always she seemed to hear the cries of the people when she had ridden through the streets of London at her Coronation: “God save Queen Elizabeth!”

She kept Robert at her side; she shared state secrets with him. The Court looked on. It was said that it could not be long before she made him her husband.

But she wanted time to think, time to grow away from the emotional weeks which had culminated in Amy’s death. Time had always been her friend.

“Why do we wait?” asked Robert. “Cannot you see that while we hesitate we are in the hands of our enemies? Act boldly and end this dangerous suspense.”

She looked at him and fully realized his arrogance; she recognized the Dudley fire, the Dudley temperament which had raised two generations from the lowest state to the highest. This man whom she loved saw himself as King, the master of all those about him, her master. There was one thing he had forgotten; she too had her pride; she too had risen from despondency to exultation, from a prison in the Tower to greatness—in her case a throne. She might take a lover, but she would never accept a master.

Cecil decided that matters must not be allowed to remain as they were. It was imperative that the Queen should marry. Let her marry the man for whom she clearly had an inordinate desire; let there be an heir to the throne. That was the quickest way to make the people settle down and forget. When they were celebrating the birth of a Prince, they would forget how Amy Dudley had died.

The wedding could be secret. The people need not know of it until an heir was on the way.

Such procedure would be irregular, but Amy’s death was very unpleasant. It had to be forgotten. Much which this Queen’s father had done was unpleasant, but that King had kept his hold on the people’s affections.

Robert was delighted with Cecil’s change of opinion. He was triumphant, believing he had won; but he had reckoned without the Queen.

She had come to know her lover well, and those very qualities which she admired so much in him and which had made her love him, helped her now to make the decision that she would not marry him … for a while.

She knew that during those difficult weeks she had learned another lesson … a lesson as important to her as that which she had learned through Thomas Seymour … as important and as painful.

She was Queen of England and she alone would rule. Robert should remain her lover, for all knew that lovers were more devoted, amusing, and interesting than husbands, who could become arrogant—especially if they were arrogant by nature.

She would win back the people’s love as she had after the Seymour scandals. Moreover, if she did not marry Robert, how could it be said that she had urged him to kill his wife?

Her mind was made up. She could not marry Robert now, for to do so would be tantamount to admitting she had schemed with him to murder Amy. Therefore she would stand supreme. She would keep her lover and remain the Queen.