Chapter Two
A grey, cloudy sky gazed gloomily through the windows. It did nothing to improve Elizabeth’s mood. There had been only a few good days of weather in a sea of spring storms and the entire court was feeling cooped up and restless. Elizabeth longed to ride out with the hunt, to breathe the fresh country air, but the terrible weather was holding them all hostage. Elizabeth wondered whether time itself had slowed down, an emotion that was exacerbated by the longer than usual wait for a response to their letters.
Katherine Newton had followed her instructions to write to the Ladies of Melusine a week ago and, so far, there were no replies. This was not unusual for the missives that had been sent further afield, but for those closer to London, it was concerning and it made Elizabeth nervous.
She had been awake since the early morning but her toilette took several hours. The preparations to make her ready to meet her ministers was, she believed, time wasted when there were important matters of state to discuss, yet, without the regalia of monarchy, her task of ruling would be rendered even more difficult. Despite her years on the throne, she knew her privy council still viewed her with derision, doubting her intelligence, waiting for her to prove herself to be too weak, too feminine, to continue to carry the mantle of monarchy. Her frustration with their constant antagonism often manifested itself as short-temperedness, a petty emotion she hated displaying.
This morning, she had insisted on meeting Burghley in her private solar, so it would not appear strange for her women to be present. Although she trusted him, Elizabeth was keen to have other ears listening to their conversation in case she missed a nuance. Gathered by the fire were her closest companions: Bess of Hardwick; her daughter, Mary Talbot; Kate Howard; her cousin, Anne West; Katherine Newton and Lady Penelope Rich, the eldest daughter of Lettice Knollys, the ‘She-Wolf’. As she entered, Elizabeth noticed that Katherine’s eyes were red-rimmed with tiredness and she felt a pang of guilt. This was due to Elizabeth’s request to transcribe some of the messages of warning that had been sent by the Ladies of Melusine over the past weeks, a task that would have taken Katherine most of the night. Her intention was to show these to Burghley should he continue to deny the rumours of unrest.
Elizabeth glanced towards Katherine, who was staring out of the window at the heavy grey skies. Earlier that morning, while Katherine had been helping to prepare Elizabeth for her day ahead, Elizabeth had informed her that she did not intend to ask Lord Burghley outright about the possible threat but would instead lead the conversation to see what information he offered. She had asked Katherine to make particular note if she felt the man was dissembling.
Katherine had her bible open on her lap as she pretended to study the text, while underneath was a sheet of paper and beside her was a stylus and ink. If anyone asked what she was writing, she would say it was a moving passage and she was making a copy for Elizabeth. As Katherine was renowned for her elegant penmanship, no one would question her motives.
The trumpet fanfare announcing Lord Burghley sent a ripple of unease through the women. Moments later, he swept into the room, followed by his train of pages, who scattered themselves to the far corner of the room and prepared their papers and portable writing desks, throwing scandalised looks at the women.
“Good morning, Your Majesty,” Burghley said, bowing to Elizabeth. “You requested a private meeting…”
“Yes, I have issues to discuss with you first, then Sir Francis Walsingham will be joining us,” Elizabeth interrupted, settling herself more comfortably in her chair and smiling at her Lord High Treasurer.
“Yes, he told me earlier,” confirmed Burghley, as though the suggestion had been his, rather than an order from his queen. Elizabeth gritted her teeth. She must not lose her temper so early in proceedings — not only was it exhausting, it gave the moral high ground to her advisors and she had no intention of allowing them to occupy such territory.
“Mary, Queen of Scots,” began Burghley in his timorous voice.
“What about her?” asked Elizabeth, surprised by this unexpected opening stance.
“We must increase her guard. She is presently under the care of Amyas Paulet and remains at Chartley Hall in Stafford but there are rumours of another plot.”
Burghley, a staunch Protestant who bordered on Puritanism, disliked Mary Stuart because she was a Catholic. He knew Elizabeth and Mary enjoyed a cordial friendship but he felt the threat of her religion, a situation that was made worse by the fact Mary had a strong claim to Elizabeth’s throne.
“Would this be the rumours concerning Anthony Babington?” asked Elizabeth.
“Yes, Your Majesty,” he replied, failing to hide the surprise in his voice. “How did you hear about that? Did Sir Francis mention it?”
“No, I have another source who told me of this plot some weeks ago. In your opinion, do you believe this is a Catholic threat?” she prompted.
“Yes.”
“And, do you believe there is any truth in the rumours?” asked Elizabeth, shooting a glance at Katherine, who was busily writing.
“We think not at present,” said Burghley, scratching his nose. “However, it is always wise to make arrangements should the threat prove to be real. I would suggest we move the Scottish queen to a more secure house. For her own safety, you understand.”
Elizabeth narrowed her eyes at Burghley. He was walking a fine line, something of which he was aware. Ever since her cousin, Mary, Queen of Scots had been forced by her Protestant nobles to abdicate her throne in favour of her infant son, James VI and flee her own country, Burghley had wanted to treat her as a political prisoner. There had been suggestions that she had been involved in a plot to murder her second husband, Henry Stuart, Lord Darnley. Despite a trial and the desperate attempts of her ministers to use false evidence, it was apparent Mary had not been involved. However, her misjudged marriage to the unpopular James Hepburn, 4th Earl of Bothwell, had made it impossible for her to return to her homeland and try to regain her throne. Instead she had thrown herself upon Elizabeth’s mercy. She had been a royal guest ever since.
“Her safety is of the utmost importance,” agreed Elizabeth. “How is Mary’s health?”
“She remains unwell,” replied Burghley.
“In that case is Chartley the best house for her? From what I remember, it can be a draughty old place,” said Elizabeth. “She has been in our care for nearly 18 years — I don’t want anything to happen to her.”
“Shall I send your physician?”
“Yes,” said Elizabeth. “Tell him it is of the utmost importance to me that the Scottish queen is restored to health. I will pay for whatever she needs.”
Burghley wrote a short note, then beckoned a page to deliver it. He rifled through his pile of paper and removed one from partway down, but before he could continue there was the sound of running feet and a woman’s urgent voice. Moments later, the herald at the door announced the arrival of Lady Dorothy Perrot and all eyes turned as she burst through the doors, her hair flying and her face ashen.
“What is the meaning of this?” snarled Burghley, his tone cold, his eyes narrowed in fury at being interrupted by a woman.
“I have a message for the queen,” said Dorothy.
Her chest heaved in her tight riding habit as she struggled to catch her breath. From the mud on the hem of her dress and her boots, it was clear she had come straight from the stables. Elizabeth rose to her feet in astonishment, hurrying towards the exhausted woman. Burghley raised his hand, meaning to take whatever message she was delivering but Dorothy stepped away from him, her eyes on Elizabeth.
“Why are you here?” demanded Elizabeth, sweeping past Burghley and taking Dorothy’s arm. “You were told to go to Kenilworth with your mother.”
“I’m sorry Aunt Elizabeth,” she gasped. “The message must have passed me while I was en route. My husband sent the children and I to London when he realised the extent of the danger he was facing in Carew.”
“What da
nger?” barked Burghley. “There has been no word of risk in Pembrokeshire.”
“My husband, Sir Thomas Perrot, claims differently, sir,” replied Dorothy.
“You must have misheard. You women are always confused by such things. This is why you should never meddle in the affairs of men…”
“Sir, I am not mistaken,” interrupted Dorothy, her voice sharp and angry. “My husband sent us away because he has heard audacious whispers suggesting the King of Spain is planning a silent coup on the west coast. With the help of Erasmus Sanders, Philip II has been secreting men into the country for weeks and Thomas believes an attempt to take Carew Castle is imminent.”
“Your Majesty,” laughed Burghley, his smile indulgent, “it is impossible that such an attack could take place…” Burghley took Elizabeth by the hand as though she were a querulous toddler, making to lead her back to her seat, while ignoring Dorothy. Elizabeth shook him away, recoiling in disgust, fury rising like a phoenix from the flames.
“You dare to speak to me so?” she hissed. “If my father had presented you with such information, would you have told him he was mistaken?”
There was another fanfare and Sir Francis Walsingham crashed through the door.
“What’s going on?” he demanded.
Elizabeth turned away from her two most trusted advisors, guiding Dorothy to the seat between Katherine Newton and Lady Penelope. Swinging back around she caught the look of amused exasperation being exchanged by the two men. Narrowing her eyes, she stalked towards Walsingham and Burghley.
“Before you dismiss this information as hysterical female nonsense, I suggest you both consult your own confidants and discover how much truth is in this rumour,” she snarled. “If we have been misinformed, then there is no need for us to be concerned. If, however, a Spanish threat is silently creeping across Wales towards us, then we must warn the duke of Hereford, who will soon be setting out for Pembroke Castle.”
She climbed the steps of her dais and stood before her ornately carved chair, glaring down at Burghley. In an instant, she saw his true nature — self-serving, sly, controlling and stubborn. The man on whom she had relied for years, whose judgement she had sought above all others, was now old and tired from his years of service. Despite a lifetime of working together, she understood that he remained dismissive of her ability to rule, as were so many of the other male courtiers in her privy council. As long as she agreed with his suggestions, he would treat her as an equal — the moment she crossed him, like now, he showed his true colours and treated her as though she were less intelligent than even the stupidest of men.
“I am a Tudor monarch,” she said, glaring at the two men. “You will send riders to Carew at once. You will also send reinforcements to Chartley to protect the Queen of Scots, Amyas Paulet and his family. Until we know whether there is truth in this rumour or not, we will take no chances.”
Walsingham shifted from foot to foot. “Your Majesty — could this be a feint?”
“Why do you say this?”
“We have recently discovered there is a spy, codenamed Julius, operating out of court. Could he have falsified this information in order to scare you?”
“A spy, and he is within the court?”
“It’s not the first time, Your Majesty.”
“Neither will it be the last. I trust my source,” replied Elizabeth. “Send your men, Walsingham. We need to know what is happening.”
Turning abruptly, Elizabeth dismissed the men with a curt nod. Walsingham did not move.
“There is one more thing, Your Majesty,” he said, as Burghley and his scribes stalked out in disgust.
“What is it, Francis?”
“The spy, Julius — we believe his wife is a someone close to you, so please be sure that all correspondence you send is through a trusted advisor.”
Elizabeth spun around, facing Walsingham. “Do you know the identity of these traitors?” she asked.
“Soon, my lady, soon. Until then, please tread cautiously.”
Elizabeth paced her solar. On the table under the window a pile of letters fluttered gently in the breeze created by the swishing of her wide skirts. She was informally attired, her dress made from a soft green wool embroidered with Tudor roses and, she noticed with a smile, a row of tiny mermaids. Lettice, or one of her daughters, must have worked on the dress at some point — they were known for always using a mermaid emblem, sometimes in plain sight, sometimes hidden in the pattern.
She was awaiting the one person whom she knew would offer her comfort and would be able to deal with the stupidity of both Walsingham and Burghley: Ralph Fitzalan, Duke of Hereford.
Although several years her junior, Ralph was wise beyond his years and with his wife, Mary Seymour, the daughter of the late queen, Katheryn Parr and her fourth husband, Thomas Seymour, had always been a trusted confidant, a welcome member of her inner circle. Ralph was recently returned from the Netherlands and she planned to commission him to muster a force to secure the border between Wales and England. Her concern was that, should the worst happen and the Spanish invade via the Pembrokeshire coast, they might follow the route her grandfather, Henry VII had taken when he had marched to Bosworth to fight for his crown against the usurper, Richard III. It would not take much to vary this path and head towards Chartley House in Staffordshire, a property that belonged to Robert Devereux, the earl of Essex, and at present, the home of Mary, Queen of Scots.
While Elizabeth had no suspicion that Mary was involved in the plot, it did not stop her becoming a figurehead for fanatics, therefore putting her life in danger. Securing an area as vast as the Welsh borders was a huge task but she felt Ralph was ready to prove himself as a military leader.
The trumpet sounded outside her doors and her herald shouted the duke’s name. Elizabeth beamed — Ralph Fitzalan was always a reassuring presence, whether it was his deep measured voice or his air of quiet confidence, he was a man to whom others naturally turned for advice, for comfort and for friendship. Orphaned as a child, he had been brought up among the Devereux clan, his wardship bought by Sir Richard Devereux of Lamphey Hall in Pembrokeshire, so his connections with the elite of Elizabeth’s court had never been in question.
“Your Majesty,” Ralph said, taking Elizabeth’s proffered hand, “it’s good to see you looking so well.”
“Thank you, Ralph. How was Robert when you left the Netherlands?”
“He was coping. I think he’s missing England, though. For all his experience and his loyalty to you, he is a man who thrives better in his home environment. Have you spoken to the countess?”
“She is currently at Kenilworth,” replied Elizabeth. “We have not spoken for a few weeks, but from all I’ve heard, she is dealing stoically with his absence.”
“Your messenger expounded that I visit with the utmost urgency. What couldn’t wait, Elizabeth?”
She slid into the chair by the fire and indicated he take the seat opposite.
“The Spanish rumours,” she said.
Ralph raised an eyebrow. “Which ones? During my journey back I heard a wide and varying array of tittle-tattle.”
“Such as?”
“The usual ones: replacing you with Mary or Philip claiming the throne,” he said, a wave of his hand dismissing them as worthless, idle gossip.
“Anything else?”
“You obviously suspect something,” he said. “Why don’t you tell me, rather than us playing cat-and-mouse for hours?”
“Walsingham claims there is a spy, codenamed Julius, who is giving information to the Spanish and that his wife is part of my court,” she stated.
“Do you know his true identity?”
“Sadly, no, although Walsingham and his spy network have a few ideas. What concerns me is whether his wife is part of the collusion or whether she is innocent of his crime but has been forced to do his dirty work.”
“That isn’t something we can answer,” replied Ralph, “therefore for now, you must set it to one sid
e, Elizabeth. If anyone begins acting suspiciously, then we will pass this information on to Walsingham and his men. I know you have a number of sources of information — do any of these offer any clues to the identity of the spy?”
“Not yet, but we have only recently sent out word, so it’s too soon to comment with any certainty.”
“Anything else?” asked Ralph.
“Philip is delivering an army of Catholic soldiers into Wales in a bid to invade by stealth.”
“Elizabeth, we’ve faced rumours like this before,” said Ralph, trying to offer some reassurance. “What new proof do you have that an invasion is imminent?”
“Sir Thomas Perrot has sent word confirming sightings of unusual ships and a rise in the number of strangers.”
“They could be innocent people trying to escape persecution.”
“I have considered that, but this influx of strangers has been reported by a wide range of other informants whom I trust,” she said, before walking towards the table and extracting a short note from the sheaf of papers, which she handed to Ralph. “There is also this. It was intercepted by one of Walsingham’s men.”
“I see,” murmured Ralph. “This claims that Philip intends to activate those loyal to Spain once his fleet has invaded the Milford Haven coastline. They will then raise loyal Catholic subjects to assassinate you and place Mary, Queen of Scots on the throne in your place.”
Elizabeth nodded, once more pacing around the room.
“Does the Scottish queen know of this plan?” asked Ralph.
“She was informed today.”
“And have the Perrot’s raised armies along the Pembrokeshire coastline?”
“Yes, there is a muster as we speak. Sir Thomas Perrot has galvanised regiments as far up as Cardigan. He has also sent messengers into North Wales and towards the Marches.”
“In that case, at first light, I will take my leave of you and head for my home in Herefordshire. From there, I’ll be able to coordinate with Perrot and we can secure both the coastline and the borders. On my way, I will visit the Scottish queen.”
The Elizabeth Tudor Conspiracy Page 9
