Robert marveled at his own fool-hardiness. What a reckless thing to do! For himself it was unimportant; he was under sentence of death. But what if he had involved the Princess in further trouble? He had trusted her life perhaps in the hands of a small boy.
But, he soothed himself, there was no political intrigue in this; he was not plotting rebellion or escape.
Moreover the plot was so simple. It could not fail. He sat down and wrote:
Dearest lady, My cell in this dreary prison has become brighter since you are close to me, grieved though I am by your misfortunes. If your walks should bring you past my cell and I might see you, that is the only boon I would ask before I die. This comes from one who has had the great joy of laughing with you, dancing with you, and would now find equal joy in a glimpse of your sweet face. From one who has never forgotten you, nor ever shall. R.D.
He hid the note in the posy, binding it fast; and eagerly he awaited the next day, wondering, as he had through the night, whether the child had been unable to keep the secret or if he would remember to bring fresh flowers on the next day.
As soon as the boy entered the cell with his father, this time bearing a larger bunch of flowers, Robert saw from the brightness of the boy’s eyes and the tightly pressed lips that he had not forgotten.
“You bring me a present,” said Robert. “Now I shall give you one.” He took the new bunch and pressed the old one into the child’s hands. Their eyes met and the boy’s were brimming over with excitement.
“God bless you,” said Robert.
“God bless my lord,” said the boy.
“I envy you this fine boy,” said Robert to the warder. “I … who have no sons … nor daughters either, for that matter.”
He thought with exasperation of Amy, waiting for him in the manor house which was their home—Amy who had saved him from marriage with the Lady Jane Grey and who now stood between him and he knew not what.
“Ah, he’s a bonny fellow,” said the father. “And he has brothers and sisters.”
“You are a lucky man.”
The warder shook his head, thinking of the splendors of the Dudleys which had ended so tragically and abruptly.
The little boy wandered out, tightly clutching the bunch of flowers.
A change had come over the Princess Elizabeth. There was fresh color in her cheeks, renewed sparkle in her eyes. It was obvious that she looked forward to her walks in the Tower garden.
She would smile and kiss the warder’s little boy who so often brought her flowers. She would pick him up in her arms and whisper to him, walking with him among the flower beds. Her attendants and the guards said: “She is very fond of children.” And it was touching to see the eager way in which she took the flowers which the child brought to her.
She had thrown off her melancholy. It was difficult to believe that her life was in danger and that none was more aware of that dismal fact than herself.
“Ah, my little one,” she would cry, on seeing the boy, “so you do not forget me then?”
“I would never forget you, Mistress,” he would say.
She would take his little hand and walk away from those who attended her; she wished to be alone in the gardens with her little friend.
“How is my lord?” she would whisper.
“He says that he is in wondrous health since he has had word from your Grace.”
“He looks for a letter from me, I doubt not?”
“Nay, Mistress. He says you must not write. I will tell him what you say.”
“You are a dear good child and I am fond of you.”
So she blossomed among the flowers and passed much time in her apartments—which otherwise would have been spent wearily—in remembering the charm of Robert Dudley, picturing what would happen if they met again.
Other children began to follow the warder’s little boy into the gardens. There was so much talk of the Princess, that they too wished to see her and to tell her how sorry they were that she was a captive.
There was the son of the Keeper of the Queen’s Robes, and little Susannah, the daughter of another warder, who came with the boy. They would run into the garden and stand before the Princess, who always had a word and smile for them; but