Leicester, who knew her better than any one, was quick to see whither she was drifting, and became violently jealous. When the time came for signing the passport for Alençon, at the end of June, he made a fervent appeal to the Queen not to sign it; but Simier was too strong for him, and the passport was sent, whereupon Leicester went and sulked at Wanstead, feigning illness, and refused to be comforted, although the Queen herself went there secretly and stayed two days to console him. Shortly afterwards a desperate attempt was made by one of the Queen’s guard to assassinate Simier, and it was at once concluded, doubtless correctly, that it had been done at the instance of Leicester and Hatton. The Queen was in a red-hot rage, and so was Simier himself, who determined to strike a blow at his rival, which no other had yet dared to do. Leicester had been secretly married some time before to the widowed Countess of Essex, the daughter of Elizabeth’s cousin, and Vice-Chamberlain Sir Francis Knollys: it was a secret de polichinelle to every one but the Queen, but no one had ventured to tell her until Simier, choosing the propitious moment, did so. Her fury passed all bounds of decency and decorum; she raged and swore against the “she-wolf,” as she called her cousin, who had thus been instrumental in wounding her vanity; but Simier was victorious, for she became more inseparable from him than ever, and for a time kept Leicester under lock and key in a fort in Greenwich Park. Soon afterwards another attempt was made upon Simier’s life, this time by a shot whilst he was on the river with the Queen. He had previously lived with Castelnau at the French embassy, but now, in order to avoid the risk of his going backwards and forwards daily by water, the Queen brought him to her palace at Greenwich, and there lodged him, to the dismay and disgust of the English courtiers.
The way seemed now clear. The King of France and his mother had been convinced by Simier and Castelnau that Alençon had only to appear before the Queen for her to marry him, and they were willing to run the risk of his going secretly on the chance, in order, if possible, to get rid of so troublesome an element as Alençon was in France. In England the match was looked upon as settled; but still gloomy, patient Philip, in his cell, was incredulous. “Whatever may be said,” he wrote to Mendoza, early in August, “I do not believe the marriage will take place, as there can be on either side no great desire for it, but a large amount of pretence.” The only thing he left out of the calculation was Elizabeth’s passion and vanity, which for a time were overmastering her judgment.
Alençon started from Paris on the 2nd of August, sending a confidential messenger ahead of him to announce his coming to the Queen and Simier. The latter had previously lodged in apartments adjoining those of the Queen, to which he had a key giving him private access, but now, for the sake of appearances, he was transferred to a pavilion in the garden at Greenwich, where rooms were also prepared for the Prince. Various attempts at mystification were made to prevent the knowledge of his arrival becoming public and to throw people off the scent, but as he was delayed by bad weather at Boulogne for some days, the news spread and his arrival was after all an open secret. The Queen coyly told the Spanish ambassador that her lover had not come, but her hints and her simpers clearly implied that he had. The courtiers, to keep up an appearance of innocence, stayed away as much as possible, and they were prudent in doing so, for the Countess of Derby and the Earl of Bedford’s daughter, who were caught gossiping about the Prince’s arrival, were incontinently placed under arrest until after he had gone.
From a letter from Simier to the Queen[109] it would appear that the Prince’s approach was first made known to her early in the morning, and that she instantly sent word to Simier, who was in bed. Simier says that as her messenger left his room the Prince himself entered it so effectively disguised that he hardly knew him. He had, he said, been met in the street by many persons, but had not been recognised. He was, says Simier, tired to death, but notwithstanding that, entreated Simier to go at once to the Queen and beg her to let him go and salute her, all travel-stained and weary as he was. “But I showed him how impossible this was, as he would have to pass through a dozen chambers before he got to yours, and that you were still asleep. At last I persuaded him to take some rest, and soon got him between the sheets, and I wish to God you were with him there, as he could then with greater facility convey his thoughts to you, for I well know that 'mal si riposa chi non la contentezza.’”
Leicester in the meanwhile was furious, and the Spanish ambassador was missing no opportunity of fanning the flame of discontent against the marriage. The Queen dined alone with Alençon in Simier’s room on the 17th of August, the day after his arrival, and although the young Prince was no beauty, with his swart, pocked-marked face, Elizabeth at once fell in love with him. He became from the first day her “frog” (grenouille), and the little endearments of the two young lovers went on ceaselessly all day, and often far into the night. “The Queen,” writes Mendoza on the 25th of August, “is delighted with Alençon, and he with her, as she has let out to some of her courtiers, saying that she was pleased to have known him, was much taken with his good parts, and admired him more than any man. She says that for her part she will not stand in the way of his being her husband.”[110] Castelnau, the French ambassador, writing at the same time, says to the Queen-mother: “These loving conferences have lasted eight days. The lady has with difficulty been able to entertain the Duke, being captivated, overcome with love: she told me she had never found a man whose nature and actions suited her better. She begs me to write to your Majesty asking you not to punish him too much for the great folly of risking so much in coming to see a woman so unworthy as she is.” The young Prince had been brought up in a Court where love-making was the great business of life, and flattered and languished as successfully as La Mole and Simier had done, and Elizabeth’s overweening vanity had probably never been so satisfied before. She gave a ball on Sunday, the 23rd of August, 1579, at Greenwich, Alençon, being only half hidden behind the arras. The Queen danced and posed even more than usual, and ever and anon made signals to her guest, of whose presence all the courtiers pretended to be ignorant. On the same night news came to the Duke that his staunch friend, Bussy d’Amboise, had at last been killed in a duel, and on the 27th Alençon started by coach to Dover to take the ship which was awaiting to carry him to Calais. Castelnau said after he went that he wrote letters “ardent enough to set fire to water,” and to judge from the curious letters sent by him and Simier from Dover before he embarked, the ambassador was not very wide of the mark. These letters are in the Hatfield collection, and are worth transcribing as a specimen of the love-letters of the time, although that of the Prince seems to our eyes a perfect burlesque, considering that it was written by a lover of twenty-four to a mature beauty of nearly double his age. He is, he says, envious of his letter which will reach her hand. He dare not commit himself to a long discourse, knowing well that he is not himself, as he is continually occupied in stanching the tears which flow from his eyes without intermission. He swears that his affection for her will last for ever, and that he is and will remain the most faithful and affectionate slave who can exist on earth. “As such,” he says, “on the brink of this troublesome sea I kiss your feet.”
This was accompanied by a letter from Simier in the quaint French of the time, which the reader may well be spared. It runs as follows: “Madame: I must tell you how little rest your frog had last night, he having done nothing but sigh and weep. At eight o’clock he made me get up to discourse to him of your divine beauty and of his great grief at leaving your Majesty, the jailor of his heart, the mistress of his liberty. Only his hope that he will soon see you again gives him some consolation. He has sworn to me a thousand times, but for that he would not wish to live another quarter of an hour. Do not then be cruel to him as he desires only to preserve his life so long as you are kind. Before he was out of bed he seized the pen and has ordered me to send off Captain Bourg with this, pending my own return to you, which will be as soon as I see him (Alençon) at sea with his sails spread. The weather is beautiful and the sea calm and I expect he will have a fair passage unless he swell the waves with the abundance of his tears. The monkey takes the liberty of humbly kissing your lovely hands.”[111] These letters were sent on the 28th of August, and on the two following days similar extravagant missives were sent by the Prince, by Castelnau, and Simier; and then, on his arrival at Boulogne, more lovelorn epistles followed, by the hands of Admiral Howard and Edward Stafford, who had escorted the Prince so far. The Queen could only talk of her ardent young lover, who, by the way, had scattered liberally amongst the courtiers the rich jewels his mother had provided for the occasion, the Queen herself receiving a splendid diamond ring worth 10,000 crowns; and in conversation with the Spanish ambassador she could find no words of praise strong enough for Catharine de Medici, “whom she had formerly abominated.” The circumstances indeed again rendered a close alliance between England and France desirable either by marriage or otherwise. Catharine had managed to disarm Henry of Navarre, and the signing of the treaty of Nerac in February, 1579, had for a time brought harmony to France, and when France was united it was always necessary for Elizabeth to be in cordial agreement with that country or Spain. Her undisguised help to the revolted Flemings and her depredations on Spanish shipping had alienated her more and more from Philip, and now another circumstance had arisen which must drive both her and Catharine de Medici into more pronounced antagonism to Spain. The King of Portugal was old, ailing, and childless, and intrigues were ripe as to the succession of the crown. The strongest claimant was Philip himself, and it was felt that a further addition to his power and the acquisition of so fine a seaboard as that of Portugal would gravely prejudice the interest of France and England. Catharine had a shadowy claim to the crown herself for form’s sake, but she and Elizabeth were quite agreed that, whoever got the prize, they would do their best to prevent Philip from gaining it, by stirring up war elsewhere and aiding the other pretenders.
Matters were therefore again ripe for an attempt to bring about a binding offensive and defensive alliance between the two countries: and as soon as the lovelorn swain had gone home, serious and exhaustive discussions of the pros and cons of the projected match was undertaken by the Council at Greenwich. They appear to have sat continuously from the 2nd to the 8th of October, and the minutes of their proceedings in great detail, written by Burleigh, exist in the Hatfield Papers.[112] No phase or eventuality seems to have been lost sight of, and a sort of debit and credit account of advantages and disadvantages is carefully drawn up. The main result of the well-nigh interminable discussions was that the possible dangers of the match outbalanced the benefits, and an address to the Queen was drawn up and signed by the whole Council, dated the 8th of October, 1579, which, however, carefully avoided the expression of a decided opinion, and cast the onus of the final resolution on to the Queen. They say that they “have not proceeded to a full resolution as is usual in such consultations, feeling that inasmuch as her Majesty’s own wishes and dispositions are principally to be regarded, it was their duty first to offer to her Majesty all their services and counsel to do what best shall please her.” They beg her to show them the inclination of her mind, and if she pleases each councillor will state his opinion to her and bear the responsibility she might lay upon them.” This message was taken to her by Burleigh, Leicester, Sussex, and Lincoln in the forenoon, and, as may be supposed, did not please their mistress. She wept and railed at them in no measured terms that their tedious disputations should seem to imply a doubt as to the wisdom of her marrying and “having a child of her own body to inherit and continue the line of Henry VIII.; and condemned herself of simplicity in committing this matter to be argued by them, for that she thought to have rather had a universal request made to her to proceed in this marriage than to have made a doubt of it, and being much troubled thereby she requested them to forbear her till the afternoon.” When they went to her again they found her even more indignant, “and shewed her mislike of such as she thought would not proffer her marriage before any device of surety.” She complained very bitterly that they should think so “slenderly” of her as to assume that she would not be as careful to safeguard religion as they were, and that they should begrudge her marriage and child-bearing for that reason. We are told (in Burleigh’s own hand) that “her answers were very sharp in reprehending all such as she thought would make argument against her marriage, and though she thought it not meet to declare to them whether she would marry or not, yet she looked from their hands that they should with one accord have made special suit to her for the same.”[113] This meant, of course, that the responsibility should rest on other shoulders than her own whilst she had her way. Stubbs’s famous book, “The discovery of a gaping gulf wherein England is like to be swallowed by another French marriage,” had recently been published, and a fierce proclamation had just been issued by the Queen denouncing such publications as “lewde and seditious.” Stubbs himself had his right hand chopped off and was exposed to public contumely, but with his left hand he raised his bonnet the moment after the blow was struck, and cried, “God save the Queen!” Nearly all London shared his opposition to the match and his personal loyalty to the Queen; and Elizabeth, who clung to her popularity above all things, was desirous of avoiding the blame for the marriage and yet to bring it about. In the meanwhile almost daily couriers sped backwards and forwards with exchanges of presents and loving missives between the Queen and Alençon, who had had another quarrel with his brother, and had retired to his own town of Alençon. He cannot imagine, he says, how her people can ever gainsay “une si bell royne qui les a tousjours tant bien gouvernés qu’il ne se peut mieus en monarchie du monde“: and her Majesty was determined they should not gainsay her if she could help it. Once Walsingham, in conversation with her, expressed an unfavourable opinion, whereupon she turned upon him in a fury, and told him to be gone for a shielder of heretics; and when Sir Francis Knollys, presuming upon his relationship, asked her how she could think of marrying a Catholic, she threatened that he should suffer for his zeal. His was a fine way, she said, of showing attachment to his sovereign. Why should not she marry and have children like any other woman? Even her faithful “sheep” Hatton had a squabble with her about it, and was rusticated for a week.[114]
Philip Sidney’s bold and nobly-worded letter of remonstrance with the Queen against the match was accepted in a better spirit. The virtues and talents of the writer, coupled with the disinterested patriotism which evidently inspired his protest, secured him against the vituperation which Elizabeth lavished on Walsingham and other Protestant champions who timidly ventured to offer not a tithe of Sidney’s outspoken opinions. “These” (the Protestants), said Sidney—“how will their hearts be galled, if not alienated, when they shall see you take a husband, a Frenchman and a papist, in whom, howsoever fine wits may find further dealings or painted excuses, the very common people well know this: that he is the son of a Jezebel of our age; that his brother made oblation of his sister’s marriage, the easier to make massacres of our brethren in belief. That he himself, contrary to his promise and all gratefulness, having his liberty and principal estate by the Huguenot’s means did sack La Charité and utterly spoil them with fire and sword! This I say, even at first sight gives occasion to all truly religious to abhor such a master, and consequently to diminish much of the hopeful love they long held to you.” The Queen wept over this, as well she might, but to her credit it may be said that she did not visit the writer with her displeasure as she would have done in the case of a less high-minded adviser.