“I have a decree from His Supreme Majesty, Philip II of Spain,” the man said.
He was English, his voice tinged with a northern accent. Elizabeth noticed his hands were soft, he had lived a privileged existence. The parchment crackled as he shot a look of pure malevolence at the queen.
“Walsingham,” said Elizabeth in a bored tone. “You read the decree. I’m not sure this man will stick to the words written by Philip.”
Ballard looked furious but two guards had already moved forward and taken the document, handing it to Walsingham. Elizabeth turned to look at her chief spymaster, ignoring the priest who stood, his hauteur dented, with eyes narrowed in the middle of the room. As though following a pre-planned cue, Elizabeth’s ministers also turned their eyes from Ballard to Walsingham, who clearing his throat, began to read:
“In the year of our lord, fifteen hundred and eighty-six, in the month of September, I, Philip Habsburg, do offer you clemency. If you will abdicate the throne of England that you usurped from me, the rightful heir, my mercy will be made manifest. You shall be allowed to live in exile abroad. My throne will be taken by my daughter, the Infanta Isabella Clara Eugenia…”
Elizabeth laughed, a reaction that was echoed by her court.
“There is more, Your Majesty,” said Walsingham, his voice grim. Elizabeth indicated for him to continue. “My graciousness will spread to your heir, your younger sister, as long as you comply with my decree…” Relief flooded through Elizabeth but Walsingham continued: “She is held by my representatives and, due to her other crimes, she will be tried under the law of the Inquisition. If she is found guilty, her punishment will be severe.”
Elizabeth waited as Walsingham’s eyes widened and he read the remaining few lines: “To your brother, I will show no mercy. My men will move forward from your western coast and will route him. His head will adorn the Tower of London.”
White-faced, Elizabeth and Walsingham locked eyes. Her spymaster gave a small shake of his head but Elizabeth had never needed his guidance less. Ignoring the gasp of confusion that had skittered around her ministers at the mention of a brother, she turned to stare at the priest in the centre of the room, who was watching her with growing triumph in his eyes.
“This is nonsense,” snapped Elizabeth. “Your decree is not even signed or sealed by Philip. You are a troublemaker and if you leave here today with your life you will consider yourself lucky. As if you would dare to apprehend any member of my court and hold them against their will. You are a charlatan and a monster. Yet you seem to think this decree is genuine. How is it possible to issue threats that are so ill-informed? It is laughable that you suggest I have siblings. Tudor heirs? If I had a brother, then I would not be Queen, he would be King…” She forced a peel of derisive laughter. Her courtiers followed suit, the sneering brays filling the room. “As for a sister, to whom do you refer?”
Her heart pounded as she posed this question. Only a select chosen few knew the truth. Philip may have threatened her with the name “Baby Elizabeth” but this rumour had been mooted before and quashed. When Mary of Guise had given birth, there had been many conflicting accounts of the true name and birth date of her child. The duke of Norfolk had taken full advantage of this confusion and had muddied all suggestions even further.
Very few people knew the truth about what had really happened in those desperate and dark days, when two royal female children had been born. Two princesses, from opposing countries, with warring parents, yet both carrying Tudor blood. Both were briefly in the royal Scottish nursery until the real Scottish princess had died — the tiny infant, born prematurely, had lost her battle to survive. It was then that baby Elizabeth Tudor, the daughter of Catherine Howard and Henry VIII, had been baptised into the Catholic faith, named for the day she was christened, the Ascension of the Virgin. The child known forever more as Mary, Queen of Scots.
Yet, even with information from that stupid woman, Douglas Stafford, could Philip really have discovered the truth? thought Elizabeth in desperation. Or was this a bluff? As for the name of her brother, this was impossible, even he did not know his true identity.
“Would you like me to say her name?” asked Ballard in a quiet, sly voice, bringing Elizabeth back to the present. “To reveal the lies you have told to those around you. Why, even the suggestion of another Tudor princess would be enough for many to place your neck on the block as your father once placed your mother’s.”
Casting an uneasy glance around the room, she saw her guards were blocking every exit — the three priests were captive in this hall and Elizabeth was reaching the end of her ability to remain calm. One look to Sir Christopher Hatton and her bodyguard would swoop. The priests could be in the Tower of London in Walsingham’s torture chamber within hours.
“There is no name to repeat,” said Elizabeth, “because I have no sister.”
“You deny her?”
“How can I deny a person who does not exist?”
The priest waved to his second assistant, who hurried forward and placed something in his hand.
“Perhaps you might wish to reconsider your words, Your Majesty,” said Ballard, his tone silken with hatred.
Walsingham hurried forward and took the velvet pouch from the man, nodding to the guards to surround the three priests, before delivering it into the outstretched hand of Elizabeth. With trembling fingers, she opened the drawstring and upended the bag. The room swayed as pure, cold terror filled her heart. Emerald clip for Lady Anne. Sapphire for Queen Catherine. The token given to her daughter when the child set off on her epic journey to the north. A symbol of love and also of recognition. Lying in Elizabeth’s palm was a ruby ring, identical in every way to the one she wore on the middle finger of her left hand, except for one tiny detail: while Elizabeth’s ring held a minute emerald on the side, this one glimmered blue from a sapphire.
Elizabeth’s fingers curled around the ring. It took every ounce of her self-control not to cry out. The Catholic priest had indeed taken control of Mary and her household. There was no other way he would have been able to secure this ring, this most precious of items. This was Mary’s message to Elizabeth and she suspected the cavity of the ring held more words sent by her sister.
The ruby in her palm seemed to pulse with life as she considered all this ring represented: the friendship of women, the trust they had placed in each other and the discovery of a sister. After the midnight ride to see the Lady Anne of Cleves and the revelation that she was not the last Tudor heir, Elizabeth and Lady Isabel Baynton had discussed her next course of action. It had taken her many months to summon the courage but eventually Elizabeth had contacted the young Scottish queen, who by then was living at the French court with the family of her betrothed, Francis, the dauphin.
Mary’s immediate reaction was to reject Elizabeth’s suggestions as a cruel joke, a way to diminish her claim to the Scottish throne, but Elizabeth had persevered and in one letter she had sketched her ruby ring, explaining it had been bequeathed to her by the Lady Anne, describing the small emerald underneath, she mentioned that it was a clip that could be moved to open the hidden cavity. Elizabeth had continued that Mary’s ring was decorated with a sapphire clip and if she were to open it, she would find the space that Catherine and Anne had used to send messages.
Silence had followed this letter and Elizabeth became worried it had been intercepted, even though she had sent it through a trusted source. Worse, she was concerned that Mary still did not believe that her offer of friendship was genuine.
Then one day a letter arrived from Mary and the royal child, who had thought herself alone in the world, had embraced her older half-sister. She knew the ring, she had written, it had been in her possession since she was a child and she had always been curious about it. She had written to Mary of Guise, the woman whom she had assumed was her real mother and to her amazement, Mary of Guise had confirmed Elizabeth’s story.
After the death of Mary of Guise in 1560, Mary, now Quee
n of France, had turned to Elizabeth, who had ascended to the throne of England and the two had slowly built a relationship of love, trust and emotional support as they battled their separate paths in the world of men. It had been a source of succour and relief to them both as they discussed the limitations they felt were thrust upon them by the stubbornness of men to believe that women were their intellectual equals and could govern as well as any man.
Now, as Elizabeth stared at the ring resting in her hand, her heart breaking as she feared the loss of another of her close female companions, this time her beloved and ailing younger sister, the silence in the room unfolded in a dense, suffocating wave. All eyes rested on Elizabeth as she considered everything that the small insignificant piece of jewellery meant to her, to the country and to the possible succession. Without thinking, her thumb found the clip and clicked it back, causing the top to move. A glimpse of parchment confirmed what Elizabeth hoped — a note.
“Take these men to the dungeon,” Elizabeth announced into the tense air of the chamber. “Search them and when we are confident they will take nothing from here but their own sorry selves, eject them.”
“Do you have a message for the king of Spain?” hissed John Ballard as the guards seized his arms.
“If I wish to speak to Philip, I will do so,” said Elizabeth. “I don’t need a grubby little go-between like you.”
The two assistants submitted to the guards without a murmur. The taller of the two was still searching the faces in the crowd, his eyes becoming frantic as he seemed unable to locate the correct person, then the door to the ante-chamber opened and Elizabeth’s women entered. Kate led the way, Bess was one step behind her with Katherine following. The young priest struggled free of his guard and threw himself in front of Bess.
“Mercy, lady, mercy,” he cried, reaching out to her and pushing something into her hand. Moments later, he was dragged away but there was relief on his face.
“Quickly, Katherine, translate it,” demanded Elizabeth, pushing the small roll of parchment into her hand. “What does she say?”
Katherine scanned the note. It was a simple letter code, the most basic of their repertoire and took her only moments to translate. With tears in her eyes, she handed it to Elizabeth.
“No,” whimpered Elizabeth as she read it. “No, this cannot be.”
The piece of parchment fluttered from Elizabeth’s trembling fingers, floating to the floor, where Bess snatched it up and read aloud:
“We have been intercepted and are en route to Fotheringhay Castle. They plan to try me in an Inquisition court. It will find me guilty and charge me with high treason towards the Catholic church. The penalty will be death. I am dying. Nothing can prevent this outcome. My dearest sister, if you love me, you will leave me be. I will negotiate the safe release of my women and of your life and then I will die, happily, willingly knowing that in my death, your life will be preserved. Please, sweet sister, do not fight this decree for I do issue it as a Tudor princess and as a queen of Scotland. Semper Sorores my sweet Lily-Venus.”
On the reverse she had written: “In my end is my beginning” and the basic outline of a bird with flames around it.
“A phoenix,” said Bess, “but what does she mean?”
“She means that once she is dead, I will be able to reveal her true identity. So, as Mary, Queen of Scots dies, the true Tudor princess can be revealed.”
There was silence as the impact of the words ebbed and flowed around the room like a curse.
“And your message, Bess, what did it say?” asked Elizabeth.
“The note is from Mignonne,” she said, “I think that’s why the young priest was searching for me, she’s my granddaughter, after all.”
“We must inform Walsingham to isolate this young man and question him alone. Keeping him in a single cell may also be necessary for his own safety. Tell me, Bess,” said Elizabeth, her voice gentle. “Whatever it is, we must know so we can work on a counterattack.”
“An elite force of Spanish soldiers has been despatched from Carew Castle,” Bess said, her voice trembling at the enormity of the information she was about to impart. “They are a royal bodyguard for Gaspar de Quiroga y Vela…”
“No!” The exclamation was from Katherine Newton, guttural, fearful. “He’s one of the most senior officials of the Spanish Inquisition.”
Bess nodded. “He is being escorted to Fotheringhay Castle.”
Elizabeth stared out of the window, her shoulders shaking as she sobbed, allowing herself this small indulgence for a few moments, before forcing herself once more under her usual icy control.
“What shall we do, Elizabeth?” asked Kate, wiping the back of her hand across her face to try and stem the tears that were streaming down her cheeks. “Shall we send men to rescue her?”
“For now, we will do as she requests,” said Elizabeth, even though each word was akin to a knife through her heart.
“What?” said Kate, horrified. “We will allow her to die?”
“She has issued a decree under her seal, look, in the corner, a tiny drawing of it and next to it, our mermaid. As a fellow monarch, I must respect her wishes…”
“But, Elizabeth,” gasped Kate, “she is dying. This is her illness speaking. We must rescue her and offer comfort for her final days. We can’t abandon her, not now. We’ve worked all our lives to keep her safe.”
“Mary has been weakening for months, she has begged me to leave her be,” said Elizabeth. “For now, we must let this plan unfold while we decide how best to resolve Philip’s terrible plot.”
There was no denying the terrible truth but Elizabeth could not look into the eyes of any of her women. Without doubt she would read shock, anger and betrayal. Only Katherine knew about Mary’s last letter, written while she was clandestinely being brought from Chartley Manor across the country in gentle stages to London where Elizabeth felt she would have been safer and, also, where she could have visited her without arousing suspicion. Throughout the journey, Mary had been growing weaker, until she had written to Elizabeth requesting that they pause a while in their travail because she did not have the strength to continue. Elizabeth had agreed but before the letter could be dispatched, Babington had been caught and Mary had been apprehended. This last note from her sister at least gave them her definite whereabouts.
“And your brother?” asked Kate, fury in her voice. “Will you finally tell him the truth.”
Elizabeth looked up, her brown eyes locking with Kate’s blue. “Yes,” she said. “Summon Walsingham, Burghley, Hatton and Francis Knollys — their task must be to secure my brother’s safety. They will need to send men to update us on the Spanish position. We must also recall Robert, Lettice and the children.”
“Won’t they be safer away from the turmoil?” said Katherine.
“Not anymore,” replied Elizabeth. “Philip has many cruel men in the Netherlands. As we are refusing to summit to his ludicrous plans, he will be vicious in his slaughter of my men. Walsingham will warn Robert immediately but we must write to Lettice.”
Katherine bobbed a curtsey and left the room to assemble her writing implements.
“Where is Ballard?” asked Elizabeth, her strength returning as she began to evolve a plan of action.
“In the dungeon, as you commanded,” replied Bess. “Although, my husband, as Earl Marshall of England, claims we can’t hold him for more than a few days. Under the laws of parley, he must be released unharmed.”
The usual commotion ensued as Walsingham, Burghley, Sir Christopher Hatton and Sir Francis Knollys entered. Elizabeth remained seated, waiting while they jostled for position in front of her, like schoolboys visiting the headmistress.
“Burghley, we will release Ballard and his men immediately,” she announced without preamble, “but, Walsingham, ensure they are followed. The young man who gave us the note…”
“Chidiock Tichbourne,” supplied Walsingham.
“Be gentle with him — he has supplied us
with a great deal of information. It is worth considering releasing him with the others as he may consent to continue to spy from the heart of this nest of vipers,” instructed Elizabeth. She waved Bess forward to hand Walsingham the note. “Mary is being held at Fotheringhay Castle, not far from here. No doubt, Philip is enjoying a little joke by taking over this old fortress. The castle has ancient links to the kings of Scotland. After the original Norman lord, Simon de Senlis, Earl of Huntingdon-Northamptonshire died, his widow, Maud married David I in December 1113, who became king of Scots. It’s also in the middle of a marsh, so it will be difficult for us to stage any kind of attack.”
Walsingham finished reading the short note, hardly hearing Elizabeth’s words. “Where did you get this?” he asked, astounded.
“Hidden within the cavity of the ring,” replied Elizabeth. “Mary and I have used these as methods to pass messages for many years. Your men will follow these priests and when they arrive at Fotheringhay they will assess the health and welfare of the Scottish queen.”
“But, Your Majesty,” spluttered Burghley, “how can we be sure the Scottish queen is trustworthy? She might be in league with the traitor Babington.”
“Oh, for goodness sake, William!” exclaimed Elizabeth. “Mary is not in league with anyone and she doesn’t want my throne. She is dying and she is trying to protect the realm by offering herself as a sacrifice. Her proposal is to allow herself to be found guilty of a false crime…”
“This could be a disaster, Your Majesty,” said Sir Francis Knollys. “If Mary is executed, it would give Philip the perfect excuse to invade. The whole of Catholic Europe would rise up to support him. We know he has already given the word that the men who were supposed to kidnap Mary would do so disguised as your soldiers. Do you honestly think he will hold a court under the Spanish Inquisition’s banner? He will twist it to make it look as though you have sanctioned her death.”
The Elizabeth Tudor Conspiracy Page 24
