That the greatest Kings and Princes of Europe sought the young Queen’s hand; that ambassadors tumbled over each other in their eagerness to press on her this splendid alliance and that, mattered nothing to her.  Her hand was her own as much as her Crown—­she would dispose of it as she wished, and none should say her nay.  To the fears and anger of her people at the prospect of her alliance with a subject she was as indifferent as to the jealousies of Dudley’s Court rivals.  She could afford to smile at them all—­and she did.

And, while Dudley was thus basking in the smiles of his Sovereign, the Lady Amy was eating her heart out in loneliness and a futile jealousy in Norfolk.  Her husband, it is true, paid her a duty visit now and then, and kept her purse well supplied for dresses she had not the heart to wear.  She knew she had lost his love, if, indeed, she had ever had it; and she spent her days, as was known too late, in tears and prayers for deliverance from a burden she was too weary to bear longer.

One day, in September 1560, an ominous rumour began to take voice.  Dudley’s wife had been poisoned—­by her husband, it was said with bated breath.  The Queen herself heard, and repeated the report to the Spanish Ambassador; varying it on the following day by the statement that “Lord Robert’s wife had broken her neck.  It appears that she fell down a staircase.”  And this amended version proved to be tragically true.  While Dudley was dallying with his Queen amid the splendours of the Court, his devoted wife was found, with her neck broken, lying at the foot of a staircase in the house of a Norfolk neighbour, whose guest she was.

How had this tragedy happened? and had Dudley any hand in it? were the questions that passed fear-fully from mouth to mouth, from end to end of England.  The story, as told at the inquest, throws little light on what must always remain more or less a mystery.

This story was as simple as it was tragic.  It seems that Amy Robsart (for by her maiden name she will always live in memory and in pity) rose early on Sunday morning, the 8th of September, the day of her death, and suggested that the entire household at Cumnor Place, at which she was staying, should leave her alone and spend the day at a neighbouring fair at Abingdon.  “As for me,” she said, “I shall be quite happy alone.  I have no taste for pleasure; but I always like to know that others are enjoying themselves, even if I cannot.”  Eagerly responsive to such a welcome suggestion the entire household repaired to the fair, except the hostess (Mrs Owen) and a lady guest; and with them as companions Amy Robsart spent a quiet and peaceful day.  During the evening she rose suddenly from the card-table, at which the three ladies were playing, and left the room; and nothing more was seen of her until the servants returning from the fair found her dead body at the stair-foot.