The Elizabeth Tudor Conspiracy

by Alexandra Walsh

  Elizabeth felt bile rise in her throat. The stench of her sister’s vicious bonfires was one which would remain with her for life. Controlling her desire to retch, she asked, “And Thomas?”

  “He was taken at knifepoint from his bed.”

  “Is he alive?” whispered Penelope, Dorothy’s elder sister, who was hovering by the window.

  “Dampard said the servant claimed he is being treated well but he is a hostage,” replied Dorothy.

  Elizabeth turned away. She twisted her ruby ring around her finger, an unconscious gesture as her quicksilver mind made decision after decision, weighing the possibility of success or failure and honing her options for survival for herself, her realm and those she loved. “I will order Walsingham to send men to assess the situation,” she said. “If the Spanish are operating in such a clandestine manner and are not crowing over their victory, then we must be as circumspect. This may only be the first wave of their plan and if we can operate as swiftly and silently as them, we may catch the ringleaders before they are able to progress any further.”

  “But we will help them at Carew, won’t we?” demanded Dorothy. “Thomas is my husband and…”

  On a furious glare from her mother, Dorothy swallowed the end of her sentence. Her tone stopped short of being accusatory but Elizabeth was no fool — she knew Dorothy had been about to remind her that Thomas had put himself at risk on her orders.

  “Of course, we will help them,” murmured Elizabeth. “However, charging the castle with 200 horse will not solve this problem. We must be as cunning as the Spanish.”

  “But Aunt Elizabeth, what are you going to do?”

  Elizabeth turned to the trembling young woman. Taking her hand, she squeezed it, trying to impart strength and reassurance.

  “Do not fear, little Calypso,” she said. “All is not lost; I will write to my brother — he will rescue your husband.”

  Never had Elizabeth sat through a longer, more tense evening. Despite sending the fastest messengers available at Kenilworth, their requests for help would not reach their destinations for many hours. Walsingham was at his home, Barn Elms, near Richmond Palace in Surrey, while Lord Burghley remained at his vast estate of Theobalds in Cheshunt, Hertfordshire. They were at least a day’s ride away from where she waited in Warwickshire. The letter she had sent to the man she knew to be her brother did not have so far to travel but even he had not yet responded.

  Her intention was to return to London as soon as possible in order to be at the heart of things. Being stuck away from the action was unbearable. She was Queen — she needed to rule, to assert her authority in case there were those who tried to steal it from her.

  The following morning as her ladies helped her to dress, Elizabeth whispered her intentions to Lettice.

  “It would be unsafe to return,” Lettice replied, her tone firm. “Apart from this new threat, there has been word that the summer’s plague has begun earlier than usual and is virulent in the City. You must not risk your health.”

  “But to be here, so far away from the centre of events, is also dangerous,” Elizabeth hissed.

  “And if you were to contract the Black Death, you would be handing your throne to Philip,” snapped Lettice.

  “I am the Queen of England,” roared Elizabeth, her nerves stretched to the limit. “How dare you speak to me in such a manner?”

  “Because I’m trying to make you see sense!”

  Elizabeth drew herself up to her full height, her frown deadly and intimidating as she glared at Lettice. Around the room there was a stunned silence. Kate hovered ready to step into the gap between her two cousins, Bess edged towards the door, in a position to run for help if necessary, while Penelope was ready to spring into action, no matter what course it might take.

  The two slender red-haired women stared at each other, so alike they could be sisters; defiance, fear and determination emanating from their rigid postures, their eyes flashing, their faces flushed. Elizabeth opened her mouth to speak, then as suddenly as her temper flared, her rigid posture slumped and tears sprang to her eyes.

  “Oh Lettice,” she wailed, and threw herself into the younger woman’s arms. “You’re right, you’re right. I’m so sorry but it was the dream. The dream of my grandfather. Last night when we were under the blackness of the witches moon.”

  The women exchanged nervous glances.

  “You think it was prophetic?”

  Elizabeth nodded. Her fear of witchcraft was great and she lived in terror that an enchanter would place a curse upon her. She prayed for protection against evil magic every morning. Dreams, she knew, were often the prompt for supernatural arts and the previous night, she had visited a dark place. “My grandfather, Henry VII, came to me,” said Elizabeth. “He reminded me of his own journey to the throne. How he landed at Mill Bay near Milford Haven, Pembrokeshire, which is not many leagues from Carew.”

  “But his journey ended in triumph,” reassured Lettice. “He reclaimed the throne of England that was his by right of blood and created the noble house of Tudor. You are the glorious result of the blood of kings.”

  “And what if it is to end the same way?” said Elizabeth. “What if his appearance was a warning that another King, who has a claim to my throne through his ancient blood, marches on the same path? Are we to meet again in warfare? Is history to repeat itself as we are ill-met by witch-light? Will I be the last Tudor monarch, losing my crown in the mud and blood of a battlefield? A circle completed; a dynasty destroyed?”

  The women stared at Elizabeth, none dared to contradict her and from their silence she knew they, too, could not deflect the darkness of this strange and unusual dream.

  “But you are not the last Tudor,” whispered Lettice into the growing silence. “You know there are others. We know you have heirs.”

  “Who languish in secret,” Elizabeth retorted. “My half-brother, who is unaware of his true destiny. His son, a prince, whose identity can never be revealed. Another princess, my half-sister, who has been draped in mystery and danger throughout her life. Are our secrets, which have been kept for the best reasons, about to be our undoing? If what Mignonne told us is true, then it appears that the King of Spain might know our secret. Is this what my grandfather warns against?”

  Only a select few knew about the twins and their true identities. These were the members of her inner court, the ones she would trust with her life and whom she would protect with her own. The people who knew all her secrets. Was it really possible one of them had been careless and this greatest of secrets had been leaked to Philip II? Is this why her grandfather had visited her in the dark of the witch’s moon, to tell her to prepare, to reach for arms and defend this fair land?

  “No, Elizabeth, no,” said Lettice. “If you need them, they will step forward and fight by your side, like the true Tudors they are in their hearts and blood. King Philip’s claim to your throne is unfounded — a work of nonsense and propaganda created when he was married to Mary. He will never command the love and support of your people. Any battle Philip might try to instigate will be crushed by your subjects. Your reign, should it ever end, will be in glory and love, not in the destruction and fear of a battlefield.”

  Elizabeth reached out to Lettice and, taking her hand, she squeezed it. “You’re right, sweet cousin, but I won’t rest easy until we have beaten Philip back to Spain. Even now his fleet might be gathering off Mill Bay.”

  Elizabeth allowed Lettice and Kate to guide her to a carved wooden chair that was lined with cushions. Leaning back, she closed her eyes and composed herself. Shouting at Lettice had been a foolish loss of control. No matter how she truly felt, showing such weakness, even among her loyal Ladies of Melusine, was potentially suicidal. She trusted everyone here but her greatest fear was always that their trust in her would be lost, that they would give up on her and begin to doubt her judgement. If she lost their love and trust, then to whom would she turn?

  Throughout her life, she had chosen her fri
ends carefully, taking her time before allowing them to become close. Yet, whenever her mood was dark, she saw subterfuge everywhere, even among those she loved. It is my weakness, she thought, and it must be overcome.

  The familiar feeling of desolation engulfed her; it was an echo from her childhood, from the day she had learned it was her father who had ordered the death of her mother, Anne Boleyn. This had been two years after the event but the reality that the enormous King, her father, could order their lives to be snuffed out with one blow of the executioner’s axe — or in her mother’s case, a sword — was a terrifying truth. From then on, she had watched her father closely, learning to gauge his moods, to stay dutiful, to win his praise and to ensure her behaviour never aroused his anger.

  “Elizabeth, please, drink this,” said Lettice. “It will soothe your nerves.” Lettice offered her a pewter cup. From inside came the scent of summertime. “It’s chamomile and lavender infused in sweet wine and honey.”

  Elizabeth took the cup and sipped, enjoying the herbal flavours. Over the years, Lettice and Kate had perfected this particular drink and Elizabeth suspected there was a pinch of poppy seeds in it too; a known relaxant. She drained her cup and handed it to Lettice. “I must finish dressing. If word comes from Walsingham or Burghley, I must be prepared.”

  Elizabeth took a moment to compose herself, then returned to her place in front of the looking glass and allowed the work of creating a Tudor queen from a slight, 52-year-old woman to continue. She would be 53 in September. A rare age indeed, but she felt she had survived the ravages of time better than some. During the day, she was forced to wear the white make-up that was so fashionable. It had also become a mask to hide behind as she performed her duty as monarch.

  Quick, light footsteps behind her startled her.

  “Your Majesty, I have news,” said Katherine Newton. “It’s from Lady Fortune.”

  Elizabeth read the short note from her half-brother’s wife and turned away. She felt as though a cold hand had squeezed her heart. Using the codenames for her brother and sister, she said, “Artemis has contacted Apollo and says she fears her household has been comprised.”

  “By whom?” gasped Kate.

  “A priest called John Ballard,” said Elizabeth. “Artemis claims this man’s knowledge of the area around Carew is far too detailed. She has heard him discussing things with his clerk…”

  “But this doesn’t prove she’s been compromised,” said Lettice, fear making her irrational.

  “There is also a note from Mignonne,” said Katherine, “and she corroborates the words of Artemis. The information was passed to Mignonne by her betrothed.”

  Bess gasped. Mignonne was her granddaughter and a trusted member of the Ladies of Melusine. Her betrothed, Claude Nau, was one of Walsingham’s agents and operated as a double agent for the Scottish.

  “Katherine, what does Artemis say was overheard?” Elizabeth’s interruption was sharp, urgent. “She would not write if she were not concerned.”

  “Late last night, Mignonne went to the kitchen to fetch some herbs she required for a sleeping draught for Artemis. On her return, she encountered Artemis who was trying to walk off cramp in her legs — you know how she suffers — and as they returned to their rooms, they overheard two men discussing our secret.”

  “The missing heirs?” asked Elizabeth, her face ashen.

  “It seems the Spanish king knows there are two more Tudor heirs and has details of the identity of your hidden sister, even though at present, he doesn’t know the identity of your brother. This plot, this invasion, it is in order to target your sister.”

  Elizabeth stared at Katherine in horror. “How could he know? How could he possibly have discovered this secret?”

  “We know our household has been compromised, too. In her letter, Lady Fortune claims that Apollo has discovered the spy.”

  Elizabeth shut her eyes, acid bile rising in her throat as fear swept through her. “Who?” she gasped.

  “Douglas Sheffield and her husband, Edward Stafford,” whispered Kate. “They know the truth about your sister and, now, thanks to them, so does King Philip II of Spain.”

  Douglas Sheffield. It did not seem possible. How could sweet Douglas Sheffield be a spy?

  Elizabeth paced the room, wringing her hands. Douglas was a Howard girl; she was part of the family. Would she betray her country to the Spanish? Elizabeth could feel panic welling inside her again. All her life she had lived with the uneasy prospect of family subterfuge. When she had barely been out of her teens her own sister, Mary, had wanted to execute her. It was why she was so careful when it came to choosing the people around her.

  “Surely, Douglas must have been forced into this situation,” said Kate, giving voice to Elizabeth’s thoughts.

  Lettice gave a harsh laugh. “Douglas is not as sweet and innocent as she appears,” she snapped, her arms folded, her body rigid with fury. “She was Robert’s lover before we were married and claims to have borne him at least one son. Don’t let her pretty face and dimples fool you.”

  Elizabeth did not reply. The animosity between Lettice and Robert’s former mistress was well known — it was the reason Elizabeth had never given Douglas a position within her inner circle. There was also Douglas’s unnerving similarity to Elizabeth’s former stepmother, Catherine Howard, who, along with Elizabeth’s mother, Anne Boleyn, had both been Douglas’s first cousins.

  Walking to the ornate stained-glass windows that took up half the wall of the solar, Elizabeth unhooked the central panels that were cleverly disguised doors. Stepping out on to the stone balcony she gazed over the magnificent gardens to where the silvery water of the lake glinted in the distance. Beyond this was the magnificent Warwickshire countryside, ancient, beautiful, hers. This was her land, her realm, her kingdom, bequeathed to her through her father’s will. Hers by right of blood and birth. Would she really let a silly girl like Douglas Sheffield try to steal it all away?

  In an instant, Elizabeth’s nerves vanished. Calmness suffused her, both body and mind. It was often the way when she was facing a crisis. Her initial reaction would be anxiety, but once her mind focused, her Tudor courage and her Boleyn and Howard cunning would rise up and fortify her. She would not let Douglas and her scheming husband, Edward Stafford, sell her realm to Spain and the Catholics. She was Queen of England and a Tudor queen at that. She would show those who doubted or challenged her that she would stand victorious. No one would steal her throne.

  “We must question Douglas,” she said. “Lettice, have one of your men discover where she is staying and invite her to meet me in London when we return. I will suggest that now her mother-in-law, Lady Dorothy Stafford, is becoming frailer, there might be a position available as Lady of the Bedchamber.”

  “Elizabeth, are you insane?” exclaimed Katherine, then covered her mouth with her hand afraid her outburst would anger the queen.

  Spinning around, a determined look on her face, Elizabeth grinned at Katherine.

  “Do not fear, Katherine,” murmured Elizabeth, “I have not lost my wits. We need to discover whether Douglas is complicit in this plan or whether her bully of a husband has coerced her. If she has intentionally betrayed me, then this is treason and I will set Walsingham to arrest her. However, if her husband has forced these confessions from her — which is what I suspect — we may be able to persuade her to spy for us and see what other information he has passed on to the Spanish. We will promise to spirit her away and protect her should he ever suspect her role but it may yet pay greater dividends to leave Douglas with her husband.”

  “Of course,” said Katherine, her eyes wide with awe.

  “These are hard won lessons, my dear,” murmured Elizabeth. “There have been many occasions when I have needed to rely on my intelligence, my nerves and my wits. Sometimes, you have to be as cunning and cruel as your enemies in order to protect yourself and those you love.”

  Katherine nodded but did not speak.

  “
Ladies, let us finish this ridiculous ritual of dressing me up as a Tudor queen, then Katherine, I’m afraid I will require your services again. We must reply to Lady Fortune, Artemis and Mignonne.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  In a flurry of pinning, painting and preening, Elizabeth watched in the mirror as she was transformed. Lettice departed in order to oversee the running of her great house. Kate, too, begged leave in order to see her husband who had arrived in the early hours of the morning, while Katherine, with Bess as her secretary, settled herself at the writing desk and waited for Elizabeth’s dictation.

  Twisting the ruby ring on her finger, Elizabeth forced herself to think rationally. The light from the morning sun flashed across the deep red stone. It was the jewel handed to her by her former stepmother, Lady Anne of Cleves — the gentle German woman who had been treated so appallingly by her father but who had found an unexpected friendship in her successor, young Catherine Howard.

  It was Anne who had commissioned the two rings so she and Catherine could use them as a secret means of communicating. They had each owned a seemingly identical jewel and had used the secret chamber at the centre of the ring to pass the ciphers for their letter codes. The only difference in the two gems were the tiny levers that worked the mechanism to open the inner chamber. Catherine’s had a sapphire clip and this she had given to her baby daughter. Anne’s was set with an emerald and it was this ring that now adorned Elizabeth’s elegant fingers.

  Lady Anne was the first keeper of Catherine’s secret, thought Elizabeth, and she passed the information to me. What a night that had been, she pondered, reliving the desperate night-time ride in her mind’s eye. The air had been icy and they had all been aware of the terrible consequences had they been caught on the road so late at night. Lady Isabel Baynton; Isabel’s eldest son, Henry Baynton and Robert Dudley had accompanied her as she answered the deathbed summons of the old queen. At the last moment, Robert had insisted two of the Dudley guards join them. For Elizabeth, there had also been the dreadful fear that she would not reach the Lady Cleves in time.