The Elizabeth Tudor Conspiracy

by Alexandra Walsh

  “If only she could die naturally…” began Sir Christopher Hatton but recoiled at the gasp of horror this statement created.

  Elizabeth turned away from her courtiers and rising gracefully, she walked to the window. “Whatever we do, Mary will not live for more than six months,” she said, her voice calm. “Yet we can’t leave her at the mercy of these men. We must act. Walsingham, bring me the necessary warrants — let us execute Babington and his supposed accomplices. It will send a clear message to Philip that we won’t be intimidated.”

  “Your Majesty,” said Walsingham with a deep bow of acquiescence, then hurried from the room.

  “What news on the Welsh invasion?” Elizabeth asked. “When he escaped, Sir Thomas Perrot claimed the Spanish were becoming disillusioned. Is this still the case?”

  Burghley cleared his throat, threw a smug glance at the remaining two men, then spoke, “Recently, I received a message from the duke of Hereford. He claims that the Spanish are indeed retreating. More ships have been spotted off the headlands but they do not seem to be approaching — it’s as though they’ve come to collect their men. Each morning, more of the invading forces have left the strongholds. However, what these Spaniards have not communicated to each other is that the duke of Hereford and George Devereux have positioned their own forces to gather these men up as they try to flee through the night. The Spanish soldiers are currently being held at Pembroke Castle, which we have liberated and is once again our most secure garrison.”

  Elizabeth stared at him aghast. “How long have you known about this?” she asked, furious that he had been keeping such vital information from her.

  “A few days, Your Majesty,” he said.

  “A few days?” She turned away from him, appalled. “What have these men confessed? You have questioned them?”

  “Yes, they claim that Philip has changed their plans. He is no longer interested in taking the castles, not now his elite force is working their way across the country…”

  “Burghley!” The exclamation came from Sir Francis Knollys. “There are Spanish soldiers here?”

  “The duke of Hereford and his men are in pursuit,” said Burghley. “He has assured me he will keep us informed but I am confident he will resolve the issue.”

  “The soldiers are escorting Gaspar de Quiroga y Vela to Fotheringhay Castle to try Mary,” stated Elizabeth, gratified at the shocked expression on Burghley’s face. “We don’t have much time. It’s imperative we discover the truth about what’s going on within the confines of the castle. Once we have a true picture, we will be able to plan.”

  The three men stared at her, dumbstruck.

  “Christopher, take Lord Burghley back to the great hall, gather my privy councillors — we need to assemble a war office in order to deal with this threat and offer support to the duke of Hereford. Sir Francis, remain here.”

  Bowing, the two men left, shouting instructions to their attendants as they hurried down the wide staircase. Even Burghley, she noticed, was following her directives without argument, understanding the true danger of the situation.

  “Kate, you will organise my rooms. We must return to London, immediately, and when you are done, you must write to the duchess of Hereford. Insist she joins us there. I will have all those around me who are important for the succession and she is one of the few who knows the truth. Bess, you will accompany Kate and you will write to Mignonne — we need to be kept updated as often as she is able to get word to us.”

  The women curtseyed and hurried from the room, leaving Elizabeth alone with her old friend and confidant, Sir Francis Knollys, who lowered himself into the nearest chair and gave her a paternal smile.

  “You have recalled Lettice?”

  “Yes,” she said, sitting opposite him, biting her lip. “It’s the only way.”

  “I understand,” he said, but he sounded weary. “When her mother and I suggested the plan, we knew it would be dangerous but from the moment Lettice was old enough we explained the role she had to play in the Tudor court.”

  Elizabeth did not speak. The emotion of the day had taken her beyond words, instead she listened to Sir Francis’s soothing voice as it recapped their complex and convoluted history.

  “She was a similar age to Catherine Howard’s daughter,” he continued. “We always thought she would be a suitable substitute or decoy, should the need ever arise.”

  “It was a brave decision,” murmured Elizabeth, “but then, our little She-Wolf has always been fierce and protective of those she loves.”

  “And she loves you very much,” said Francis, “even though in recent months we have released gossip suggesting you loathe her.”

  “It is the best ammunition we have to protect her,” said Elizabeth. “If I push her aside and make it clear she is nothing but an irritant, she will never be a target for plotters. It will ensure her safety and that of her children.”

  “And now, she returns?”

  “Yes, with Robert,” said Elizabeth. “There is a task she must perform; one she has succeeded in before. Dorothy and Penelope will remain at court, Sir Thomas Perrot continues to recover, Penelope’s husband is in London, making more money, Lettice’s son is with Robert, leading the charge at Zutphen on a supply convoy for Philip’s garrisons. Her other boys are safely studying at Cambridge. Since the death of Lord Denbigh, her son with Robert, two years ago, she has been more cautious but now we have reached this crisis, I know she will agree to my request.”

  Sir Francis gave her sorrowful smile but he nodded his head, confirming that his daughter would not flinch from any task requested of her by Queen Elizabeth.

  “And your brother?” he asked. “What of him?”

  Elizabeth rose and swept to her inner chamber, returning moments later with the wooden box given to her by Anne of Cleves.

  “This will remain in my strong room,” she said. “The key will be in the charge of Katherine Newton, who is the great-niece of Catherine Howard. She has been one of my secret keepers ever since she came to me as a maid of honour. On our return journey to London, I will dictate my confession to Katherine and when it is finished, I will place my seal and my signature upon it. This document will be placed with the others in this box. If Philip should succeed with any of his plans and both Mary and I meet an untimely end, I charge you, Sir Francis Knollys, to open this casket and use it to prove the validity of my heir apparent, my half-brother and the man, who should be king.”

  “But Elizabeth, he doesn’t know…” began Francis.

  “He will, when you have sent men to find and support him as he chases across the Welsh heartlands in pursuit of the Spanish soldiers. You will take whomever you need and you will search my realm until you find him, then you will bring Ralph Fitzalan, Duke of Hereford to me at Westminster. I will inform him of his true parentage and will promise to name his as my heir.”

  “What about James VI, waiting in Scotland, assuming he will one day be King of England?”

  “I made no promises. Ralph has the strongest claim, followed by his son, William. They will make the Tudor line secure.”

  “My dear, I am unsure. This could begin another Civil War.”

  “Then let us hope Philip fails and I remain on the throne for the foreseeable future,” said Elizabeth, placing the casket on a table near the window and folding her arms across her chest. “If I am murdered by the Spanish, my realm will need a strong king to lead them into war against Philip II. Ralph Fitzalan is the son of my father, Henry VIII and his fifth wife, Catherine Howard. He is the twin brother of Mary, Queen of Scots, who was born Princess Elizabeth at Marquess House in Pembrokeshire. He is the best hope we have and I am prepared to risk naming him as my successor should the necessity arise.”

  The setting sun in the window behind her lit Elizabeth’s red hair so it glowed with otherworldly intensity. Her determination radiated from her like a beacon, her brown eyes glinting with power, every inch the personification of God’s representative on earth, the tru
e Queen of England.

  Sir Francis Knollys stared at her, feeling the power emanating from her and gave the smallest nod of his head.

  “Thank you, Francis,” said Elizabeth, her relief palpable. “Now I have your word, I can turn my attention to other matters of importance.”

  “Such as?”

  “Saving my realm from the Spanish, freeing my sister and ensuring she does not die alone.”

  Chapter Four

  The late autumn winds rattled the windows at Westminster Palace. Icy blasts threw hail and wet leaves at the diamond-shaped panes. Fires blazed in every hearth and Elizabeth stalked through her corridors of power, barking commands as she fought her way through the tumultuous treachery that threatened her realm.

  “The earl of Leicester will return within the week,” said Walsingham as he walked beside Elizabeth. “Sir Peregrine Bertie, Lord Willoughby, will replace him as leader of your troops in the Netherlands.”

  “Yes, my eyes will be home at last,” said Elizabeth, lapsing into the nickname she had bestowed upon Robert Dudley in their youth.

  “The news of the death of the young poet, Sir Philip Sidney, is tragic,” said Walsingham.

  “Indeed, he is the best friend of Robert Devereux, the eldest son of Lettice Dudley from her first marriage. The two young men have been inseparable since childhood. He returns with his stepfather, Leicester, intent on accompanying his friend’s body on its last journey…” Elizabeth allowed the sentence to trail away as she continued to stride towards the Star Chamber. So much loss, she thought, endless deaths and for what purpose? Once again they would reconvene to discuss the torturous happenings at Fotheringhay Castle. Each day brought a flurry of fresh information, keeping the privy council hard at work as it sifted through the endless of stream of messages flooding into Walsingham’s den of spies and cryptographers. Walsingham had finally understood the importance of the news sent by the Ladies of Melusine and how, in this war against the creeping shadow of Spain, the smallest detail could make a difference, even that supplied by a woman.

  It was from a meeting with Katherine Newton, Bess of Hardwick, Kate Howard and Philadelphia Scrope that the two had come. Walsingham had read the assembled letters from the Ladies of Melusine as translated by Katherine and added their information to the intelligence his own men had gathered. The news was not good.

  “Could we rewrite the Bond of Association to include the Habsburgs?” Elizabeth asked as they walked. “We might not be able to implement it but it would prove to Philip he is not the only one who is able to indulge in flights of fancy when it comes to passing laws in someone else’s country.”

  “Burghley could certainly draft an amendment,” said Walsingham. “As you say, we would never be able to press the sentence but it would irritate Philip.”

  “Which is always a good thing,” mused Elizabeth.

  “Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth!” shouted the herald as the doors were thrown open and she swept into the Star Chamber, the centre of government, where her full privy council was gathered. Unlike the usual relaxed atmosphere of the chamber, where the noble men of the realm often viewed these meetings as a social event as much as a legal obligation, there was a buzz of raw energy coupled with an underlying hum of fear and tension; with the country on a war footing all men knew their duty. As Elizabeth entered her councillors bowed, each relieved to see her but also quietly wishing she were her father, as they all felt they needed a man to guide them through these troubled times.

  “Rise, rise,” she called, her voice, as ever, tinged with impatience at the obsequious bowing. “Walsingham, update the chamber on the news from Fotheringhay,” she barked, settling herself on her raised chair under her cloth of state.

  Sir Francis Walsingham bowed to Elizabeth, then took his position in the centre of the room.

  “Our informers have sent word that for the last two days, Gaspar de Quiroga y Vela, supported by John Ballard, hereafter known as Black Fortescue, have been conducting an illegal court under the auspices of the Spanish Inquisition in which he has tried Mary Stuart, Queen of Scotland and the Isles, Dowager Queen of France for crimes against the Catholic church.”

  “And what are these charges?” demanded Sir Christopher Hatton.

  Elizabeth, who knew what was coming, closed her eyes and gripped the arms of her chair until her knuckles were white, listening with increasing horror as Sir Francis Walsingham delivered the report sent to him by Ralph Fitzalan and confirmed by Mignonne.

  “But how is this possible?” exclaimed Lord Zouche. “Mary has never denied her faith. She has remained a true Catholic.”

  “The charge was that she has not tried to assassinate Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth, which under the papal bull issued by Pope Pius V in 1580 was the objective of every practising Catholic in this realm. As you remember, this edict excommunicated the queen and encouraged her Catholic subjects in this heinous act,” said Walsingham. “It is nonsense but de Quiroga y Vela and Fortescue are about to pronounce the sentence under the law of Spain. Our fear is that should the worst happen, any act of violence will be made to look as though it has been sanctioned and carried out under the orders of Queen Elizabeth. The prospect of one anointed monarch sentencing another to death, if this is indeed what they plan, it could be enough to begin a war supported by all the Catholic nations in Europe.”

  “And yet,” snapped Elizabeth, “it is acceptable for Philip to constantly threaten me and my realm and for the Vatican to pronounce a death sentence over my head because they are men and Catholics, therefore they presume they are above God and the law, when, in fact, nothing could be further from the truth.”

  Silence greeted this pronouncement. Elizabeth could feel bile rising in her stomach, not only with fear for Mary but also with fury for Philip. How dare he and these upstart priests attempt to pass laws in her realm? What right did they have to threaten her? The men around the chamber stared at her, but no one spoke — they did not dare disagree with their queen.

  “Do we know when they will deliver their decision?” Elizabeth asked, after a few moments, spitting out the words, each as distasteful as the next.

  “No, not yet,” replied Walsingham, relieved to be back on safer ground. “Mignonne has managed to get word to us that the Scottish queen is coping well, although her health continues to fail. It’s possible the Spanish are hoping she will die naturally and then they can add her neglect to the many crimes they are already trying to place at your feet, Your Majesty.”

  Elizabeth shook her head in annoyance. Philip had been a constant irritant for years, costing her money, men and time. As she considered the many wrongs he had dealt her, even before she became Queen, she felt power rising within her heart.

  “Walsingham, would his abortive attempt to take my country by trying to invade from the Welsh coast make the rest of Europe, as well as our allies, realise that Philip is duplicitous?”

  “Very few know about his failed attack on Carew and his brief occupation of the other castles,” Walsingham reminded her. “The duke of Hereford and I have discussed this and we think it’s probably the reason Philip allowed that first plan to falter.”

  “Explain yourself, Walsingham,” bellowed Christopher Hatton. “Why do you make such a statement?”

  “The duke and I believe Philip was playing several plots at once,” said Walsingham, addressing the entire chamber. “He enthralled Babington and his group of Catholic traitors in order to discover the whereabouts of the Scottish queen. By convincing these foolish young men that his plan was to save Mary and place her on the throne once they had assassinated Elizabeth, he created the necessary diversion to slowly deliver a Spanish force on to one of the more remote coastlines of our realm. He seemed to imagine the Welsh would respond to his call, rising against the monarchy, but he forgot that the Tudors are Welsh, and when men are asked to take up arms, it is rarely against one of their own.

  “It was one of Philip’s biggest mistakes. It didn’t take him long to realise
that a land battle across the width of the country would be prohibitively expensive. By then, he’d also discovered Mary’s weakened state of health and realised she would never be able to be his puppet monarch. I believe this was when he decided his daughter would be a suitable regent and he would murder Queen Elizabeth, while trying Mary under the laws of the Inquisition and freeing himself of both, as he thinks, ‘troublesome queens’.”

  “But is he really willing to sacrifice Mary? Another Catholic monarch? It would make more sense if he were to try me, a heretic,” said Elizabeth.

  “He will do whatever is necessary and if that means sacrificing Mary in order to give him a reason to invade England and steal your throne, then, yes, I have no doubt.”

  “This is monstrous,” exclaimed Lord Zouche.

  Elizabeth glared around the room. Until now, she had allowed Philip’s plot to unfold, she had taken Mary’s request to be allowed to die into consideration but things were becoming ludicrous and she refused to be in this position any longer. The time had come to act rather than react, despite the instructions Mary had decreed in her letter to Elizabeth.

  “Enough,” she said and turned abruptly to Walsingham. “The sentence on Mary has not yet been passed. Until this happens, we must consider all possible outcomes. Know this, though — Philip will confound me no longer. The duke of Hereford resides, at my request, at Boughton Hall, not many miles from Fotheringhay Castle. When the sentence is passed, whatever verdict is delivered, the duke must be in a position of strength, with men and arms, prepared and ready to storm the castle and put an end to this ridiculous dance with Spain. There is no other way. We will rescue Mary and her women, then these Catholic traitors will be put to their deaths.”

  There was uproar. Male voices clamoured, each shouting their view, most disagreeing with Queen Elizabeth’s unexpected change of plan. Until now, they had been advising her to proceed with caution, to advance at a gentle pace in order to allow them to sift through the information available, but now her Tudor blood was rising and she was suspicious of their endless words of warning. Elizabeth stood. She had listened to their pronouncements of tremulous fear for too long. The time was now; they must act.