“And forbidden!” said Kate. “He was married to Amy Robsart.”
“He never strayed,” sighed Elizabeth.
“Then you met Alencon,” Kate reminded her.
Elizabeth paused for a moment as she remembered the young French duke who had wooed her so well. He, like so many others, was dead now but she had mourned him, wearing widows’ weeds for six months. It had surprised the French ambassador, Castlenau, when he had visited her to watch the hunt from the newly-built terrace at Windsor Castle a few months after Anjou’s demise. It had been a crisp September day and she had still been wearing a long black dress and a diaphanous veil that reached the floor. Without doubt her heart had been broken at the unexpected loss of the man she had always called her ‘little frog’. If she was honest, she had never stopped missing him. Shaking her head to clear these sad thoughts, she brought herself back to the present.
“Where are Burghley and Walsingham this evening?” she asked.
“Burghley is at his country estate, Theobalds, for a few days and Walsingham is in Paris,” replied Katherine.
“Paris?”
“He had a lead to follow up and he trusted no one but himself with the task,” Katherine said. “He wouldn’t believe that Edward Stafford was the spy ‘Julius’ because the intelligence came from a woman. He’s gone to confirm it for himself. He also intends to discover what secrets Douglas may have been forced to spill.”
Elizabeth frowned. “Walsingham is a good man,” she said, “but he has missed so many details of this plot because he’s allowed his prejudices to cloud his judgement. I hope he has learned his lesson. However, it doesn’t matter — if they are both away, there is nobody to stop us with what we must do this evening.”
Kate glanced out into the solar. “Why are there so many of your court here this evening?” she asked, closing the door and leaning on it.
“Probably at Walsingham’s order,” sighed Elizabeth. “He’s trying to make amends for doubting us. Katherine, would you tell the ladies out in the solar that I feel like some fresh air and we will be taking a walk in the gardens. They’re not to worry if we’re gone a while and they’re definitely not to tell anyone. Demand that they retire in an hour as I will go straight to bed upon my return.”
Katherine Newton nodded and slid through the doors. Elizabeth knew her women were loyal and no one would gossip about her sudden disappearance but she did not want to give any would-be assassins the opportunity to quietly kill her while she was on one of these night-time jaunts. This was not the first time she had disappeared from the palace and she doubted it would be the last. Not when there was so much at stake.
Elizabeth, Kate and Katherine scurried through the dark passages of Whitehall Palace, following the servants’ route to the river below. Elizabeth paced behind the sure-footed Katherine Newton down the steps to the wharf and Lettice’s awaiting barge; the Leicester colours, covered with a wooden board in order to disguise it. Throughout her life she had enjoyed moments of subterfuge like this, escaping from her palaces and manor houses in order to spend a few hours away from the trappings of the oppressive Tudor court, to relax with her friends and family, to be, simply, Elizabeth. Tonight though, there were important events to discuss and she doubted there would be much time for leisure.
Two men were waiting,: Lettice’s trusty footman Thomas Dampard, who was never far from the countess’s side, especially when Robert was away from home, and, beside him, the Leicesters’ bargeman, Jolyon Gillions. Another trusted member of the earl’s staff. He had been with Robert for many years and his wife, Joan, was the chief laundress at Leicester House.
“This way, my Lady Venus,” murmured Dampard, helping Elizabeth into the barge. Immediately, Gillions stepped forward and settled Elizabeth on the cushions Lettice had placed in the covered section at the centre of the boat. A moment later, Kate was by her side, tucking a blanket around their legs to keep off the chill of the river. Katherine joined them and, once the women were seated, they heard the soft plash of oars and the barge moved out into the choppy tidal flow of the river Thames.
Crafts of all shapes and sizes filled the wide river on the balmy July evening and the shouts of water boatmen carried over the grey waves, as the sun sank into the gathering clouds. None were aware their beloved queen was among them on the river. As the summer twilight drained the colour from Elizabeth’s vibrant capital city, she breathed in the multitude of smells on the busy waterway. Everything from the pleasant scent of the woodsmoke from the brazier on the barge, to the dubious odours of rotting food, dead rats and more besides.
The river was bustling and chaotic, especially as The Queen’s Players were opening a new play at one of the theatres in Shoreditch that night. The excitable crowd was heading through the swirling river mist, chattering and laughing in anticipation of a night of riotous entertainment. Elizabeth smiled and settled back against the cushions breathing in her London, her home, her heartland.
“Elizabeth, how wonderful! Come and sit by the fire. The evening has turned unexpectedly cool.”
Lettice hurried forward, as ever the gracious hostess.
“My little She-wolf,” Elizabeth smiled, forgetting all court etiquette and hugging her cousin. “What news from Robert?”
Lettice indicated to her page to pour wine and arrange refreshments near the chairs that had been set by the fire before taking the seat opposite her cousin.
“A letter arrived this afternoon,” she said. “Things continue to flounder but he hopes that now more of his trusted guard has arrived, he will have a proper council of war and his plans will finally come to fruition. I also had a short note from my son, Robert, who is with him. He said that there are good men advising my Lord Leicester — Philip Sidney, Sir John Norris, William Stanley — and Robert’s brother, Ambrose, too. He won’t fail you Elizabeth.”
“I know, my dear,” she said.
Kate, Katherine and Dorothy Perrot entered. Dorothy was smiling.
“Aunt Elizabeth,” she exclaimed.
“How is Thomas?”
“Exhausted but he asked to be woken when you arrived,” she said. “I’ll fetch him.”
Dorothy hurried from the room.
“And William is here, too?” Elizabeth turned to Lettice as she asked the question, referring to the duke of Hereford’s son.
“He is in the games room, playing cards with Penelope. I believe she is relieving him of some of his fortune.”
“Good,” said Elizabeth, smiling. For the first time in weeks, she felt relief. This evening, at least, she was among friends, safe from spies and able to speak without the fear of being overheard. Usually, these visits were times of laughter and fun but tonight her active mind continued to ponder the problem that would arise every time she was left with a moment to herself: Philip of Spain. He did not scare her but he was an irritant and she was eager to see him vanquished, but to her frustration she had still not divined a way to make this possible.
The door opened, bringing her thoughts back to the present, and Dorothy entered with her husband, Sir Thomas Perrot. He was a tall man, handsome and modest, usually brimming with laughter but this evening he was pale and one side of his face was blackened with bruises. His walk was cautious and he winced when Dorothy accidentally brushed his side. Following traditional etiquette he began to bow but Elizabeth hurried forward and instead led him to her chair by the fireside.
“No formalities tonight, Thomas,” she said, passing him a goblet of wine. “You have travelled many miles to bring me news and I appreciate your efforts.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty…”
“Aunt Elizabeth,” she interrupted, correcting him.
“Aunt Elizabeth,” he said and took a sip from his drink, flinching in pain as he manoeuvred himself into a more comfortable position. Dorothy rushed forward with a cushion, fluttering around him until he placed his hand on hers to calm her and indicate he was settled, then he spoke, “Has Babington been apprehended yet?”
“Babington?” asked Kate, taken by surprise. “Why do you ask about him?”
“He is key to this convoluted plot of Philip’s,” said Thomas, contempt lacing his voice. “Babington has been loyal to the king of Spain for many years. From listening to the soldiers at Carew, he is much admired for his unflinching questioning of non-believers to the Catholic faith, not to mention his methods of persuading them to confess to their sins.”
Elizabeth was appalled. “Not the Spanish Inquisition?” she said, disgust rounding out every vowel.
“Yes,” said Thomas, “Babington is one of their most-admired men.”
And he is at the heart of the plot spun around the Scottish queen, thought Elizabeth. “But what has this to do with the coup in Pembrokeshire?” asked Elizabeth.
“There are so many plans, Aunt Elizabeth, each one overlapping with the next. The king of Spain is determined to try and capture this land so he can return it to what he sees as the true faith. He has attacked the castles on the Welsh coast to try and shore up a base to march his troops across from the west. He also thought it would draw your armies away from London, leaving the Thames estuary unguarded and open to potential invasion. He believes he will soon have victory in the Netherlands, then he will have a base to invade from the east coast, after which he intends to march towards Scotland. He is confident that if he offers King James your crown, then the young monarch will join forces with him and march on England from the north.”
Elizabeth turned away. She knew the others thought she would be upset by these revelations of Philip’s plans but her overriding emotion was annoyance. Wars and more wars, battles, invasions — why were men obsessed with such tedious issues? These schemes and skirmishes were the result of ego, posturing, pomp and stupidity. Each raid would cost thousands of marks, the country would be stripped of its young men, there would be famine, there would be fear as foreign soldiers looted and raped their way across her land and all for what? The right to say the mass in Latin rather than English.
“Thank you for this information, Thomas,” she sighed. “While the cost and thought of such a prolonged campaign disgusts me when the money could be used more wisely, the idea doesn’t surprise me. It was one Philip would ruminate upon when he was married to my sister, Mary. After several glasses of wine he would bore us with his battle strategies. My sister would smile at what she perceived to be his worldly wisdom. I would pretend not to have understood but I did and I listened hard. It seems this attentiveness has served me well. Until then, I had not realised the Thames estuary could be a weak point and ever since my reign began I have ensured it is never left unguarded. The Netherlands are holding firm, thanks to Robert, and loyal Protestant, King James has signed a Treaty putting him in my pay. He will not take Philip’s grubby coin or convert to Catholicism.”
Thomas winced again and Elizabeth felt sorrow for the young man. These injuries had been inflicted when he had been fighting for her.
“Did you discover anything else?” she asked. “Other than his grandiose plans for invasion.”
“He is planning a sea battle, too,” said Thomas and Elizabeth spun around to face him, her attention caught at last. This was new. “A fleet is currently being assembled by Alvaro de Bazan, 1st Marquis of Santa Cruz de Mudela. He alone believes the sea is the best place to fight and win this country. The king, however, hesitates, as he thinks a land battle will be more successful. Santa Cruz is frustrated by this as he believes the king’s prevarication causes many embarrassing political and financial mistakes. He thinks this disjointed attack on the Welsh coast is one such example. However, from what I heard one man saying, Santa Cruz is preparing to fit out his fleet in Lisbon, where Philip has claimed the crown for himself.”
Light sparkled in Elizabeth’s eyes. This was fortuitous news indeed, especially if Philip felt this was a waste of time. The security around the Spanish fleet would be minimal. Beckoning to Katherine, she asked her to write down all Thomas had said as she wanted a record, not only for herself, but to show to Walsingham and Burghley when they were back at court.
“There was one more thing, Aunt Elizabeth,” he said, his face drawn and parchment yellow with exhaustion.
“Only one more thing, Thomas, then you must return to bed — anything else can wait until you’ve slept,” she said, concerned by his colour.
“Yes, Aunt Elizabeth, this may not mean anything but I know Dorothy has a number of secret names for you all and I wondered if this would make sense.”
The atmosphere in the room changed, when Thomas had been speaking of war and invasion, the women had not been surprised, now however, they exchanged sharp, nervous glances.
“What is it?”
“A few days before I was able to escape a letter arrived from Babington. It was addressed to the Welsh traitor, Erasmus Sanders, who was often at Carew, strutting around as though he were the rightful heir to the castle, not I, and it stated that Artemis was being chased into their trap and he was confident Apollo would follow. Soon, only Venus would remain, but she would be easily removed.”
Elizabeth did not sleep well that night. The words, which had meant nothing to Thomas, held huge significance for the Ladies of Melusine. Elizabeth’s sister and brother were both in immediate danger, and she herself would be the next target. What trap did Philip mean, though? Even now, Artemis was travelling to safety. Each night, she moved to another safe house, wending her way across the country on a path devised by Walsingham and his extensive spy network. Her core of ladies were with her, as was an elite force of guards. How did Philip hope to force her into a trap when, as far as the outside world was concerned, she languished, too ill to be moved, at Tixall Castle? Apollo was also far away and safe from the Spanish forces.
She twisted the ruby ring on her finger. Could it be that her information was old? The network of ladies wrote each day but was it possible, even with their constant updates, they had missed some vital piece of news. Elizabeth glanced around. She was surrounded by women but her closest confidants were not in their midst. Elizabeth beckoned Philadelphia Scrope to her side and whispered, “Where is Kate?”
“My sister is with her husband and children,” Philadelphia replied. “They will return to court this evening.”
“Of course,” murmured Elizabeth. Kate had sought her permission the previous night when they had returned from their sojourn with Lettice. With the sudden threat of invasion her need to see her children had been overwhelming. As had her desire to impart the information about Santa Cruz and his plans for a Spanish Armada to her husband, Charles, the Lord High Admiral of Elizabeth’s fleet, even if Philip was hesitating. “And Bess?”
“Her husband arrived late last night and is ailing. I believe she is nursing him. She sent word, apologising for her delay.”
Elizabeth dismissed Philadelphia with a wave. Lettice was in Dudley’s town house where she was playing to host to William Fitzalan, Viscount Rutland, the son of Ralph. Only Katherine was at court this morning but, on the queen’s instructions, she was writing urgent messages to key members of the Ladies of Melusine, asking if they had heard anything that could confirm the rumours Thomas had reported from Carew Castle. The thought that Anthony Babington and his men were working under the auspices of both Philip II of Spain and the Spanish Inquisition was a terrifying and unexpected development.
A fanfare announced both the countess of Shrewsbury and the countess of Leicester. A smile bloomed on Elizabeth’s face. At last, the two people she most needed on this unnerving morning. The two women curtseyed to the floor and Elizabeth stalked towards them.
“Where have you been?” she snapped. “Neither of you had my permission to be late. I will speak with you in my private chamber.”
Marching across the room to her solar, Elizabeth beckoned to the two countesses to follow. The doors were flung open and Elizabeth stormed in, walking towards the window, where she turned to face them, her expression softening the moment the door was shut and they were alone.
“Was there any more news last night?” she asked, her voice urgent.
“Nothing more from Thomas or William,” said Lettice. “Both were still sleeping when I left an hour ago. Penelope and Dorothy are in residence to ensure no one enters who is unwelcome.”
“Good, thank you, Lettice,” said Elizabeth, walking forward and taking her cousin’s hands, squeezing them in thanks.
“And Arbella, Bess. Where is she?”
“She’s with her Talbot cousins and my daughter, Mary, at our London house. Shall I send for her?”
“Yes. We need her at court as quickly as Mary can arrange it, please.”
Bess nodded her understanding and left. Elizabeth waited until the door had shut behind the countess and her footsteps had receded, then she turned to Lettice.
“I’m sorry Lettice — last night, we decided to recall Robert from the Netherlands but I’ve realised, at the moment, this would be a disastrous move…”
“Why?” interrupted Lettice.
“Because I need you to leave the dangers of this court and go to the alternative court Robert has created for me in Holland.”
“What?” Lettice sounded horrified.
“You are to take Arbella Stuart, as well as your own daughters and their children. The duke of Hereford’s son, William Fitzalan, will also accompany you.”
Lettice’s eyes were wide with fury. “And if I refuse to go?”
“Please don’t make this any more difficult, Lettice,” snapped Elizabeth. “You knew this day might come; your family and the Devereux’s all knew it could come to this. You are my best hope for the future, all our planning, all our scheming, your mother, you, your sisters, your cousins, your daughters have all been at the heart of it and you know the reason why.” Elizabeth glared at Lettice as she turned away, aware she had a mercurial temper to match her own.
“I won’t leave you, Elizabeth,” she replied. “My place is here and you know it.”
“You have no choice,” said Elizabeth. “My actions are designed to make my country and the succession safe. If I am killed, by any means — assassination, murder, in battle — I must know that my heirs are safe.”
The Elizabeth Tudor Conspiracy Page 17
